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A Library of Poetical Literature 

IN THIRTY-TWO VOLUMES 


■Robert SSurns 

I ' 


Frontispiece in Color 
by A. E. Becher 



THE AMERICAN HOME LIBRARY 

COMPANY, NEW YORK CITY 
_ LHo3n_i_ _ 
















































COPYRIGHT 1902 
By P. F, collier & SON 



m. HUTCHESON^, 

i\S’03 



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CONTENTS, 


I 


PAGE 


Biographtcal Preface . 3 

POEMS. 

I The Twa Dogs. 55 

Scotch Drink. 60 

\ The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer 63 

I The Holy Fair. 68 

I Death and Doctor Hornbook. 73 

\ The Brigs of Ayr. 78 

) The Ordination. 83 

I The Calf. 85 

I Address to the Deil. 85 

I The Death and Dying Words of Poor 
i' Mailie, the Author’s only Pet Yowe 87 

Poor Mailie’s Elegy. 88 

To James Smith. 89 

A Dream. 91 

The Vision. 93 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the 

Rigidly Righteous. 97 

Tam Samson’s Elegy. 98 

Halloween.. 99 

The Jolly Beggars. 103 

The Aula Farmer’s New-Year Morning 
Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie 109 
To a Mouse, on turning her up in her 

V ^ nest with the plough.. .. Ill 

-*A Winter Night . 112 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet. 114 

The Lament, occasioned by the Un¬ 
fortunate Issue of a Friend’s Amour 116 

Despondency. 117 

Winter. 118 

- The Cotter’s Saturday Night. 119 

Ma n was made to mourn. 123 

A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death.. 124 

Stanzas on the same occasion. 125 

Verses left by Burns in a Room where 

he slept. -. 125 

The First Psalm. 126 

A Prayer, under the pressure of vio¬ 
lent anguish... 126 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm . 126 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 

down with the plough. 127 

To Ruin. .. . .. . 128 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie’s Poems 128 

Epistle to a Young Friend. 128 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West 

Indies...^. 129 

To a Haggis. 130 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 131 
■=> 5^0 a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady’s 

Bonnet at Church.. .133- 

Address to Edinburgh. 136 


PAGB 


Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scot¬ 
tish Bard. 135 

To the Same. 136 

To William Simpson. 138 

Epistle to John Rankine. 141 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage.. 142 
Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Sli's. 

Oswald. 143 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson. 144 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on 

the Appi’oach of Spring. 146 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. 146 

To Robert Graham of Fintra, Esq... 148 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 150 
Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, of 
Whiteford, Bart., with the forego¬ 
ing Poem. 151 

-aTarn O’Shanter. 153 

On the late Captain Grose’s Peregrina¬ 
tions through Scotland. 158 

On Seeing a Vvounded Hare limp by 
me. 159 


Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 

crowning his Bust at Ednam. 1.59 

To Miss Cruikshank. 160 

On the Death of John M’Leod, Esq... 160 
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water 

to the noble Duke of Athole. 160 

The Kirk’s Alarm. 1G2 

Address to the Toothache. 164 

Written with a Pencil over the Chim¬ 
ney-piece, in the Parlor of the Inn 

at Kenmore, Taymouth. 164 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 
born in Peculiar Circumstances of 

Family Distress. 165 

Written with a Pencil, standing by 
the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness.. 166 
Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother 

Poet. 166 

The Inventory of the Poet’s Goods and 

Chattels. 167 

The Whistle. 108 

Sketch, inscribed to the Right Hon. 

C. J. Fox. 171 

To Dr. Blacklock. 172 

Prologue spoken at the Theater,Dum- 

fries. 173 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet. 174 

The following Poem was written to a 
gentleman who had sent him a news- 

F iaper, and offered to continue it 

ree of expense.175 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer. 175 
The Rights of Woman. Prologue 

spoken by Miss Fontenelle. 176 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle.. 177 


III 

18—Burns—A 






































































IV 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Verses to a Young Lady. 178 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry. 178 

Verses to Chloris, with a copy of the 

last Edition of his Poems. 179 

Poetical Address to Mr, William 

Tytler. 180 

Sketch.—New-Year Day. 181 

Extempore, on Mr. William Smellie.. 181 
Inscription for an Altar to Independ¬ 
ence . 182 

Monody on a Lady famed for her Ca¬ 
price .'. 182 

Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, 

Esq., of Qlenriddel. .183 

Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel’s Birth¬ 
day. 183 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries. 183 

Verses written under violent grief . •. 184 
Extempore to Mr Syme, on refusing 

to dine with him...«... 184 

To Mr Syme. 184 

Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing.... 184 
Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell... . 185 
Sent to a Gentleman whom he had of¬ 
fended.185 

Poem on Life. 186 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry -. 186 

Epitaph on a Friend. 187 

Verses written at Selkirk. 187 

Inscription on the Tombstone of the 

Poet Fergusson. 188 

A Grace before Dinner.188 

A Verse, repeated on taking leave at 

a place in the Highlands . 188 

Liberty. 189 

Fragment of an Ode to the Memory 
of Prince Charles Edward Stuart.. 189 
Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruis- 

seaux. 190 

Answer to Verses addressed to the 
Poet by the Guidwife of Wauchope- 

House. 190 

To J. Lapraik. 191 

The Twa Herds. 192 

To the Rev. John M‘Math. 193 

Holy Willie’s Prayer. 195 

Epitaph on Holy Willie. .. 197 

On scaring some Water Fowl in Loch- 

Turit. 197 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauch- 

line.-. 198 

Epistle to Mr. M‘Adam. 198 

To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel. 199 

Verses intended to be written below 

a noble Earl’s Picture. 199 

To Terraughty, on his Birthday. 199 

To a Lady, with a present of a Pair 

of Drinking Glasses.200 

The Vowels. 200 

Sketch. 201 

Prologue for Mr Sutherland’s Benefit 201 

Elegy on the Y ear 1788 . 203 

Verses written under the Portrait of 

Fergusson the Poet.203 

Lament, written at a time when the 
Poet was about to leave Scotland.. 203 

Delia.204 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter 

Blair. 204 

To Mi89 Ferrier. 205 


PAGE 

Verses to an old Sweetheart, then 


married.206 

The Poet’s Welcome to his Illegiti¬ 
mate Child. 206 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock.. 207 
Letter to James Tennant, Glenconner 207 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria. 208 

On a Suicide.. . 210 

A Farewell. 210 

The Farewell. ^. 210 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq. 211 

Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry. 214 
Verses on the Destruction of the 

Woods near Drumlanrig.214 

Epistle to Major Logan. 215 

Epitaph on the Poet’s Daughter. 216 

Epitaph on Gabriel Richardson.216 

On Stirling.216 

Lines on being told that the forego¬ 
ing Poem would affect his Prospects 216 

The Reply.217 

Epistle to Hugh Parker. 217 

Address of Beelzebub to the President 

of the Highland Society. 217 

To Mr. John Kennedy.218 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq, 219 


Echo.220 

Lines written at Loudon Manse.220 

Orthodox, Orthodox. A Second Ver¬ 
sion of the Kirk’s Alarm'.. 221 

The Selkirk Grace. 223 

Elegy on the Death of Peg Nicholson. 223 
On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favor¬ 
ite Character. 223 

The League and Covenant. 223 

On Miss Jessy Lewars. 223 

Epitaph on Miss Jessy Lewars. 224 

The Recovery of Jessy Lewars.224 

The Toast. 224 

The Kirk of Lamington. .224 

Written on a blank leaf of one of Miss 
Hannah More’s Works, which she 

had given him.224 

Inscription on a Goblet. 224 

The Book-worms. 225 

On Robert Riddel. 225 

Willie Chalmers. 225 

To John Taylor. 226 

Lines written on a Bank-note. 226 

The Loyal Natives’ Verses. ^6 

Burns’s Reply—Extempore. 226 

Remorse. 227 

The Toad-Eater. 2 ^ 

To.. 227 

“In vain would Prudence”.227 

“Though fickle Fortune ”.228 

“1 burn,! burn”. 2 ^ 

Epigram on a noted Coxcomb. 228 

Tam the Chapman.^ 

To Dr. Maxw'ell, on Miss Jessy Staig’s 

Recovery.229 

Fragment. 229 

There’s Naethin like the honest Nappy 229 
Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods on 

his Benefit-night.229 

Nature’s Law. A Poem humbly in¬ 
scribed to G. H., Esq.230 

The Cats like Kitchen. 



































































































CONTENTS 


V 


PAGE 


Tragic Fragment. 231 

Extempore. In passing a Lady's Car¬ 
riage . 232 

Fragments. 232 

Epitaph on William Nicol. 233 

Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent the 

Author by a Tailor.233 

Extempore lines, in answer to a card 
from an intimate Friend of Burns.. 234 
Lines written Extempore on a Lady’s 

Pocketbook. 235 

The Henpeck’d Husband.^35 

Epitaph on a Henpeck’d Country 

Squire. 235 

Epigram on said occasion. 235 

Another. 235 

Verses written on a Window of the 

Inn at Carron.236 

Lines on being asked why God had 
made Miss Davies so little and 

Mrs.-so large. 236 

Epigram. Written at Inverary. 2;i6 

A Toast. Given at a meeting of the 

Dumfries-shire Volunteers. 236 

Lines said to have been written by 
Burns, while on his Deathbed, to 

John Rankine.237 

Verses addressed to J. Rankine. 237 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord 

Galloway. 237 

On the Same.237 

On the Same. 237 

To the Same, on the Author being 
threatened with his Resentment... 237 

Verses to J. Rankine. . 238 

Extemporaneous Effusion, on being 

appointed to the Excise. 238 

On hearing that there was Falsehood 

in the Rev. Dr. B-’s very Looks. 238 

Poverty. 238 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish.. 238 
Lines written and presented to Mre. 

Kemble. 239 

Lines written on a Window at the 
King’s Arms Tavern, Dumfries.... 239 
Lines written on the Window of the 

Globe Tavern, Dumfries. 239 

Extempore in the Court of Session. -. 239 
Lines written under the Picture of 

Miss Burns.... 240 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr. 240 

Epigram on Captain Francis Grose.. 240 
Epigram on Elphinstone’s Translation 

of Marttpl’s Epigrams . 240 

Epitaph on a Country Laird. 240 

Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic.241 

Epitaph on Wee Johnny. 241 

Epitaph on a celebrated ruling Elder 241 

Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq.241 

Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq.... 241 

A Bard’s Epitaph..... 241 

Epitaph on my Father.242 

Epitaph on John Dove. 242 

Epitaph on John Bushby. 242 

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline. 242 

Epitaph on a Person nicknamed “ The 

Marq[uis ”.243 

Epitaph on Walter R.. 243 

On Himself. 243 

Grace before Meat. 243 


PAOB 


On Commissary Goldie’s Brains.243 

Impromptu.843 

Addressed to a Lady whom the 

Author feared he had offended. 243 

Epigram. 244 

Lines inscribed on a Platter. 244 

To..244 

On Mr. M’Murdo. 244 

To a Lady who was looking up the 

Text during Sermon.244 

Impromptu. . 244 

To Mr. Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauch¬ 
line. 245 

To a Painter.245 

Lines written on a Tumbler.245 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank, of the High 
School, Edinburgh.845 


SONGS. 


The Lass o’ Ballochmyle.246 

Song of Death. 246 

My ain kind Dearie 0. 247 

Auld Rob Morris. 247 

Naebody. 248 

My Wife’s a winsome wee Thing.248 

Duncan Gray.248 

O Poortith.... 248 

Galla Water. 249 

Lord Gregory. 249 

Open the Door to Me, ohl. 250 

Meg o’ the Mill. 250 

Jessie.251 

Wandering Willie. 251 

Logan Braes. 251 

There was a Lass.. . 2.52 

Phillis the Fair.252 

By Allan Stream.: .. 253 

Had I a Cave.253 

Whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad 253 
Husband, Husband, cease your Strife 254 

Deluded Swain. 254 

Song. 255 

Wilt thou be my Dearie ?. 255 

Banks of Cree.255 

On the Seas and far away.255 

Hark! the Mavis. 256 

She says she lo’es me best of a’. 256 

How lang and dreary. 257 

The Lover’s Morning Salute to his 

Mistress. 257 

Lassie wi’ the Lint-white Locks. 257 

The Auld Man. 2.58 

Farewell, thou Stream. 258 

Contented wi’ little. 258 

My Nannie’s awa’. 259 

Sweet fa’s the Eve. 259 

O Lassie, art thoh sleeping yet ?. 259 

Song. 260 

’Twas na her bonnie blue Ee. 261 

Address to the Woodlark.261 

How cruel are the Parents.261 

Mark yonder Pomp. 261 

I see a Form, I see a Face.262 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier.262 

Forlorn, my Love. 262 

Last May a braw Wooer. 263 

Hey for a Lass wi’ a Tocher. 264 

Altho’ thou maun never be mine. 264 

The Birksof Aberfeldy.268 









































































































VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The young Highland Rover. 

Stay, my Charmer. 265 

Full well thou know’st. 266 

Strathallan’s Lament. 266 

Raving Winds around her blowing... 266 

Musing on the roaring Ocean.266 

Blithe was she. 267 

Peggy’s Charms. 267 

The lazy Mist. 267 

A Rose-bud by my early Walk.268 

Tibbie, I haeseen the Day. 268 

I love my Jean. 268 

O, were I on Parnassus’ Hill 1. 269 

The blissful Day. 269 

The Braes o* Ballochmyle. 269 

The happy Trio. 270 

The blue-eyed Lassie. 270 

John Anderson my Jo. 270 

’Tam Glen. . 271 

Gane is the Day. 271 

My Tocher’s the Jewel. .271 

What can a young Lassie do wi’ an 

Old Man?. 272 

O for ane and twenty, Tam !. 272 

The bonnie wee Thing. 272 

The Banks of Nith. 273 

Bessy and her Spinnin Wlieel.273 

Country Lassie. 273 

Fair Eliza.274 

She’s fair and fause.274 

The Posie. 274, 

The Banks o’ Doou. 275 

Version printed in the Musical 

Museum. 276 

Gloomy December. 276 

Behold the Hour. 276 

Willie’s Wife.. 277 

Afton Water. 277 

Louis, what reck I by tliee ?. 278 

Bonnie Bell. 278 

For the sake of Somebody. 278 

O May, thy Morn. 278 

The lovely Lass of Inverness.278 

A red, red Rose. 279 

O, wat ye wha’s in yon Town ?. 279 

A Vision.279 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast.280 

The Highland Lassie. 280 

Jockey’s ta’en the parting Kiss. 281 

Peggy’s Charms. 281 

Up in the Morning early. 281 

Tho’ cruel Fate. 281 

I dream'd I lay where Flowers were 

springing. 282 

Bonnie Ann.. 282 

My Bonnie Mary. 282 

My Heart’s in the Highlands. 282 

There’s a Youth in this City. 283 

The rantin Dog the Daddie o’t. 283 

I do confess thou art sae fair. 283 

Yon wild mossy Mountains.284 

Wha is that at my Bower Door ?. 284 

Farewell to Nancy. 285 

The bonnie Blink o’ Mary’s Ee. 285 

Out over the Forth. 285 

The bonnie Lad that’s far away. 285 

The gowden Locks of Anna.286 

Banks of Devon. 286 

Adown winding Nith... 287 

Streams that glide. 287 


PAGE 

The De’il’s awa’ wi’ the Exciseman.. 2^ 
Blithe hae I been on yon Hill.... . . 288 
O were my Love yon Lilac fair... . 288 

Come, lot me take thee.... • .. 288 

Where are the Joys?.. • 289 

O saw ye my Dear ?...289 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie ... • 290 

My Chloris. 290 

Charming Mouth of May. . 290 

Let not woman e'er complain. 291 

O Philly. 291 

ohu Barleycorn. 291 

Canst thou leave me thus ?.. .... 292 

On Cliloris being ill. 293 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood, 293 

The Rigs o’ Barley.294 

Farewell to Eliza. 294 

My Nannie, O. 294 

Green grow the Rashes. ..295 

Now westlin Winds. 296 

The big-bellied Bottle. ... 296 

The Author’s Farewell to his native 

Country.297 

The Farewell. 297 

And maun I still on Menie doat. 298 

Highland Mary. . . 298 

4. Auld Lang Syne. .. 299 

Bannockburn. . 299 

The gallant Weaver. 300 

Song.300 

For a’ that and a’ that. . ... 300 

Dainty Davie. .301 

To Mr. Cunningham ... . ..301 

Clarinda. . 301 

Why, why tell thy Lover ? . . 302 

Caledonia. 302 

On the battle of SherifT-Muir.303 

The Dumfries Volunteers. 304 

O wha is she that lo’es me ?.304 

Captain Grose. 305 

Whistle owre the Lave o’t. 305 

O, once I lov’d a bonnie Lass. 305 

Young Jockey... . . 306 

M'Pherson’s Farewell. 306 

The Dean of Faculty. 306 

I’ll ay ca’ in by you Town. 307 

A Bottle and a Friend.307 

I’ll kiss thee yet. 307 

On Cessnock Banks. 307 

Prayer for Mary. 308 

Young Peggy.309 

There’ll never be Peace till Jamie 

comes hame.309 

There was a Lad. .. . ... .. .310 

To Mary. 310 

Mary Morison. 310 

The Sodger’s Return. 311 

My Father was a Farmer .... 311 

A Mother’s Lament for the Death of 

her Son . ... 312 

Bonnie Lesley. . . 313 

Amang the Trees. 313 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle. 313 

On Sensibility. . 313 

Montgomerie’s Peggy. .... 314 

On a Bank of Flowers. 314 

O raging Fortune’s withering Blast 314 

Evan Banks. 314 

Women’s Minds... 315 

To Mary in Heaven. 31f 














































































































CONTENTS 


vii 


PAGE 


To Mary.316 

O leave Novels.316 

Address to General Dumourier. 316 

Sweetest May.^. 317 

One Night as I did wander. 817 

The Winter it is Past.317 

Fragment. 317 

The Chevalier’s Lament.. 317 

The Belles of Mauchline. 318 

The Tarbolton Lasses. 318 

The Tarbolton Lasses..... 318 

Here’s a Health to them that’s awa’. 320 

I’m owre young to marry yet. 320 

Damon and Sylvia... . 320 

My Lady’s Gown there’s Gairs upon’t 320 

O ay my Wife she dang me. 321 

The Banks of Nith. 321 

Bonnie Peg. 321 

O lay thy Loof in mine, Lass. 821 

O guid Ale comes. 321 

O why the Deuce.... 322 

Polly Stewart. 322 

Robin shure in hairst. 322 

The five Carlins. 322 

The Deuk’s dang o’er my Daddie.... 323 
The Lass that made the Bed to me... 324 

The Union. 324 

There was a bonnie Lass.. —. 325 

My Harry was a Gallant gay. 325 

Tibbie Dunbar. 825 

Wee Willie. 325 

Craigie-burn-wood. 326 

Here’s his Health in Water. 321 

As down the Burn they took tlieir 

Way. 326 

Lady Onlie.326 

As I was a wandering. 327 

Bannocks o’Barley.. 327 

Our Thrissles flourished fresh and 

fair. 327 

Peg-a-Ramsey.. .328 

Come boat me o’er to Charlie. 328 

Braw Lads of Galla Water. 328 

Coming through the Rye. 328 

The Lass of Ecclefechan.329 

The Slave’s Lament. 329 

Had I the Wyte. 329 

Hee Balou. 329 

Her Daddie forbad. 330 

Here’s to thy Health, my bonnie Lass 330 

Hey, the dusty Miller. 330 

The Cardin o’t. 330 

The joyful Widower.331 

Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary. 331 

The Farewell. 331 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie Face. 331 

Jamie, come try me. 332 

Landlady, count the Lawin. 332 

My Love she’s but a Lassie yet. 332 


AGB 


My Heart was ance.332 

Lovely Davies. 333 

Kenmure’s on and awa.333 

The Captain’s Lady . .. . 333 

Lady Mary Ann.334 

The Highland Widow’s Lament.334 

Merry hae I been teethin’ a Heckle... 334 

Rattlin’, roarin Willie.3.35 

O Mally’s meek, Mally s sweet. 335 

Sae far awa.— .. 336 

O steer her up. 336 

O, whar did ye get.336 

The Fete Champetre.. - .336 

Simmer’s a pleasant Time. 337 

The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw 337 

The Highland Laddie. 338 

The Cooper o’ Cuddie..r.. 338 

Nithsdale’s welcome Hame.. 339 

The Tailor. 339 

The tither Morn.. 339 

The Carle of Kelly burn Braes. 340 

There was a Lass. 341 

The weary Pund o’ Tow —. 342 

The Ploughman . 342 

The Carles of Dysart. 342 

Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray.343 

My Hoggie. 343 

Where hae ye been. 343 

Cock up your Beaver. 343 

The Heron Ballads. First Ballad— 343 

The Election. Second Ballad.344 

An excellent new Song. Third Ballad 345 

John Bushby’s Lamentation. 346 

Ye sons of Old Killie.... 347 

Ye Jacobites by name . 347 

Song—Ah, Chloris....... . 348 

Whan I sleep I dream. 348 

Katharine Jaffray. .348 

The Collier Laddie. 348 

When I think on the happy Days.-349 

Young Jamie, pride of a’ the Plain... 349 

The Heather was blooming. 349 

Wae is my Heart.349 

Eppie M’Nab. 3.50 

An, O I my Eppie. 350 

Gude’en toyou, Kimmer. 3.50 

O that I had ne’er been married. 351 

There’s News, Lasses. 3.51 

Scroggam. . 351 

Frae the Friends and Land I love. . 3,51 
The Laddies by the Banks o’ Nith... 3.51 

The bonnie Lass of Albany.3.52 

Song.352 

Appendix :— 

Elegy. 354 

Extempore. To Mr. Gavin Hamil¬ 
ton. 355 

Versicles on Sign-posts. 355 






































































































CONTENTS-TO THE LETTERS 


m. 


PAGE 


I. to iv. To Miss Ellison Begbie 

357 to 360 

V. To William Burness. 361 

vi. To Mr. John Murdoch.. .. 863 

vii. Observations, etc., from 

the Poet’s Commonplace 
Book, sent to Mr. Robert 


Riddel. 364 

viii. to X. To Mr. James Burnes 

373 to 376 

xi. To Miss.. 877 

xii. To Miss K..378 

xiii. To Mr. John Richmond... 879 

xiv. To Mr. Robert Muir. 880 

XV. To Mr. David Brice. 880 

xvi. To Mr. John Richmond_381 

xvii. To Mr. David Brice. 383 

xviii. To Mr. John Richmond... 382 

xix. To Mons. James Smith.... 383 
XX. To Mr. John Kennedy. 384 

xxi. To Mr. Robert Muir. 384 

xxii. To Mr. Burnes. . 885 

xxiii. To Mr. Robert Aiken.885 

xxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop. 887 

XXV. To Mrs. Stewart. 888 

xxvi. To Dr. Mackenzie. 389 

xxvii. To Miss Alexander. ^ . .. 390 

xxviii. To William Chalmers and 

John McAdam. 892 

xxix. To Mr. Robert Muir.892 

XXX. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 394 
xxxi. To James Dalrymple, Esq. 395 
xxxii. To John Ballantine, Esq.. 396 
xxxiii. To Mr. Robert Muir 397 

xxxiv. To Mr William Chalmers. 397 
XXXV. To the Earl of Eglinton 398 
xxxvi. xxxvii. To John Ballantine, 

Esq... ... .399, 400 

xxxviii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 400 

xxxix. To Dr. Moore.<... . 402 

xl. To the Rev. G. Lawrie_ 403 

xli. To Dr. Moore. 404 


xlii. To John Ballantine, Esq.. 405 

xliii. To the Earl of Glencairn.. 405 

xllv. To the Earl of Buchan_ 406 

xlv. To Mr. James Candlish-407 

xlvi. To.. 408 

Xlvii. xlviii. to Mrs. Dunlop. 409, 410 

xlix. To Dr. Moore. 411 

1. To Mrs. Dunlop. 411 

11. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh 

Blair. 413 

Hi. To Mr. W. Nicol. 413 

liii. To Mr. James Smith. 414 

liv. To William Nicol, Esq. 415 

Iv. To Robert Ainslie, Esq_ 416 


Vlll 


NO. PAGE 

Ivi, To Mr. James Smith. 416 

Ivii. To Mr. John Richmond_ 418 

Iviii. To Dr. Moore... 419 

lix. To Mr. Robert Muir. 428 

lx. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.. 429 

Ixi. To Mr. Walker. 431 

Ixii. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. 432 

Ixiil. Ixiv. To Miss M. Chalmers. .433, 434 

Ixv. To James Hoy, Esq. 434 

Ixvi. To Rev. John Skinner. 436 

Ixvii. To James Hoy, Esq.437 

Ixviii. To Robert Ainslie, Esq.... 438 

Ixix. To Miss Mabane [after¬ 
wards Mrs. Col. Wright] 438 

Ixx. To Miss Chalmers. 439 

Ixxi. To Sir John Whitefoord... 440 

Ixxii. To Gavin Hamilton. 441 

Ixxiii. To Miss Chalmers. 442 

Ixxiv. to Ixxvii. To Mrs. M‘Lebose, 

443 to 445 

Ixxviii. To Miss Chalmers. 446 

Ixxix. To Charles Hay, Esq. 447 

Ixxx. To Miss Chalmers. 448 

Ixxxi. Ixxxii. To Clarinda.448 to 450 

Ixxxiii. To Mr. Richard Brown_ 451 

IxxxiV. to xcii. To Clarinda.452 to 463 

xciii. To Miss Chalmers. 464 

xeiv. To Mrs. Dunlop.464 

xcv. To Robert Graham, Esq.. 485 
xcvi. To the Earl of Glencairn.. 465 

xcvii. to cxi. To Clarinda.467 to 479 

cxii. To Mr. James Candlish.... 479 

cxiii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 480 

cxiv. To the Rev. John Skinner. 480 

cxv. To Mr. Richard Brown_ 481 

cxvi. To Miss Chalmers. 481 

cxvii. To Mrs. Rose. 482 

cxviii. cxix. To Clarinda.483, 484 

cxx. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.. 485 
cxxi. To Mr. Richard Brown.... 486 

cxxii. To Clarinda. 487 

cxxiii. To Mr. William Cruik- 

shank. 488 

cxxiv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 489 

cxxv. To-?.. 489 

cxxvi. cxxvii. Sylvander to Clarinda 

490, 491 

cxxviii. To Mr. Richard Brown.... 493 

cxxix. To Mr. Robert Muir. 494 

cxxx. To Mrs. Dunlop. 495 

cxxxi. To Miss Chalmers. 495 

cxxxii. to cxxxv. Sylvander to Cla- 


cxxxvi. To Mr. Richard Browa.... 498 
cxxxvii. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn .. 499 
cxxxviii. To Mr. William Dunbar... 499 





























































CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS 


IX 


NO. 


paoe; 


NO. 


PAGE 


cxxxix. To Miss Chalmers.501 

cxl. To Mr. James Smith. 501 

cxli. To Mrs. Dunlop.502 

cxlii. To Professor Stewart. 503 

cxliii. To Mrs. Dunlop.503 

cxliv. To Mr. Samuel Brown.504 

cxlv To Mr. Robert Ainslie.504 

CXlvi. cxlvii. To Mrs. Dunlop.505, 506 

cxlviii. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 507 

cxlix. Extracts from Common¬ 
place Book.508 

cl. To Mr Robert Ainslie.509 

cli. To Mr. Peter Hill . 511 

clii. To Mr George Lockhart.. 512 
ciiii. to civ. To Mrs. Dunlop.. ..512 to 516 

clvi. To Mr. Beugo.517 

clvii. To Miss Chalmers.. 518 

clviii. To Mrs. Dunlop.... 521 

clix. To Mr. Peter ifill. .. 521 

clx. To the Editor of the 

clxi. To Mrs. Duniop.,. 52i5 

clxii. To Dr. Blacklock. 526 

clxiii. To Mr. James Johnson*... 527 

clxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop. 627 

cl XV. To Miss Davies.528 

clxvi. To Mr, John Tennant.529 

clxvii. To Mr.WilliamCruikshank 5ii0 

clxiii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 530 

clxix. To Dr Moore. 532 

clxx. To Mr. Robert Ainslie- 533 

clxxi. To Professor Dugald Ste¬ 
wart . 534 

clxxii. To Bishop Geddes*. 535 

clxxiii. To Mr. James Burness.... 537 

clxxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop. .5-38 

clxxv. To the Rev. P. Carfrae_540 

clxxvi. To Clarinda.541 

clxxvii. To Dr Moore. 542 

clxxviii. To Mr. Hill.543 

clxxix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 544 

clxxx. To Mrs. McMurdo . 545 

clxxxi. To Mr Cunningham. 546 

clxxxii. To Richard Brown .546 

clxxxiii. To Mr. James Hamilton... 547 

clxxxiv. To William Creech Esq.. . 547 

clxxxv To Mr John McAuley.548 

clxxxvi. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 549 

clxxxvii To Mr. [Peter Stuart]. 550 

clxxxviii. To Miss Williams. 551 

cixxxix. To Mrs. Dunlop 554 

cxc. To Lady Glencairn. 555 

cxci. To Mr. John Logan.. 556 

cxcii. To Mrs. Dunlop .... .557 

cxciii. To Captain Riddel. 559 

cxciv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie.560 

cxcv. To Mr Richard Brown.... 561 

cxcvl. To R. Graham, Esq. 562 

cxcvii To Mrs. Dunlop.. 563 

cxcviii. To Sir John Sinclair...... 565 

cxcix. To Lady Winifred Max¬ 
well Constable. 566 

cc. To Charles Sharpe, Esq.. 567 

cci. To Mr. Gilbert Burns.568 

ccii. To Mr William Dunbar, 

W. S.569 

cciii. To Mrs. Dunlop . -.570 

cciv. To Mr. Peter Hill. 572 

ccv. Sylvander to Clarinda.... 572 


ccvi. To Mr. W. Nicol.573 

ccvii. To Mr. Cunningham.574 

ccviii. To Mr. Hill. 576 

ccix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 577 

ccx. To Collector Mitchel.579 

ccxi. To Dr. Moore. 580 

ccxii. To Mr. Murdoch. 581 

ccxiii. To Mr. McMurdo. 582 

ccxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop.582 

ccxv. To Mr. Cunningham.583 

ccxvi. To Dr. Anderson.583 

ccxvii. To Crauford Tait, Esq. 584 

ccxviii. To.. 585 

ccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 586 

ccxx. To Mr. Peter ifill. 587 

ccxxi. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. 588 

ccxxii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 589 

ccxxiii. To the Rev, Arch, Alison.. 589 

ccxxiv. To Dr. Moore.590 

ccxxv. To Mr. Cunningham. 592 

ccxxvi. To Mr. Alexander Dalzel.. 593 

ccxxvii. To Mrs. Graham. 594 

ccxxviii. To the Rev. G. Baird. 595 

ccxxix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 596 

ccxxx. To.. 597 

ccxxxi. To..597 

ccxxxii. To Mr. Cunningham. 598 

ccxxxiii. To the Earl of Buchan_ 599 

ccxxxiV. To Mr, Thomas Sloan.600 

ccxxxv. To Lady E. Cunningham.. 601 

ccxxxvi. To Mr. Ainslie.601 

ccxxxvii. To Miss Davies. 602 

:cxxxviii. to ccxl. Sylvander to Cla¬ 
rinda.603, 604 

ccxii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 605 

ccxiii. To Mr. William Smellie... 606 

ccxliii. To Mr. Peter Hill. 607 

ccxiiV. To Mr. W Nicol.607 

ccxlv. To Francis Grose, Esq,, 


ccxlvi. To Mrs. Dunlop. 609 

ccxlvii. To Mr. Cunningham. 611 

ccxlviii. To Mr. G Thomson....*.,,. 613 

ccxlix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 615 

ccl. To G. Thomson. 616 

ccli. cciii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 617 

ccliii. ccliv. To G. Thomson. 619 

cclv. To Miss Fontenelle. 620 

cclvi. To a Lady. 620 

cclvii. To Mrs. Riddel. 621 

cclviii. To G Thomson.621 

cclix. To R Graham, Esq. 622 

cclx. cclxi. To Mrs. Dunlop.623, 624 

cclxii. To G. Thomson.625 

cclxiii. To Clarinda. 625 

cclxiv. To Mr. Cunningham.626 

cclxv. To Miss Benson. 628 

cclxvi. To Patrick Miller, Esq. 628 

cclxvii. To G. Thomson. 629 

cclxviii. To John Francis Erskine, 

Esq. 631 

cclxix. To the Earl of Glencairn.. 633 
cclxx. cclxxi. To G. Thomson. ..634, 6.35 

cclxxii. To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 636 

cclxxiii. to cclxxv. To G. Thomson 

637, 638 

cclxxvi. To Miss Helen Craik. 639 

cclxxvii. to cclxxxiv. To G. Thomson 

640 to C44 












































































































X 


CONTENTS OF THE LETTERS 


NO, PAGE 


cclxxxv. To John McMurdo, Esq... 645 
cclxxxvi. To Captain [Robertson of 

Lude?]. 645 

cclxxxvii. To tbe Earl of Buchan..., 646 

cclxxxviii. To Mrs. Riddel. 64? 

cclxxxix. To Mr. Samuel Clark, jun. 64? 
ccxc. to ccxcii. To Mrs. Riddel.. .648, 650 

ccxciii. To Mr. Cunningham... 650 

ccxciv. To Miss Lawrie. 652 

ccxcv. To Mrs. Dunlop. 653 

ccxcvi. To Mr. James Johnson_ 654 

ccxcvii. To Clarinda. 655 

ccxcviii. to ccevi.To G.Thomson,650 to 662 
cccvii. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. 663 

cccviii. cccix. To G. Thomson. 664 

cccx. To Mr. Heron. 664 

cccxi. tocccxiii. To G Thomson..666, 667 

cccxiv. To Mrs. Riddel. 667 

cccxv. cccxvi. To Mrs. Diti^<lop..667 to 670 


NO. PAGE 


cccxvii. To the Hon. the Provost, 
Bailies, and Town Coun¬ 
cil of Dumfries. 671 

cccxviii. To Mrs. Riddel. 671 

cccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop. 672 

cccxx. To Mrs. Riddel. 672 

cccxxi. cccxxii. To G. Thomson. 673 

cccxxiii. To Mr. James Johnson.... 674 

cccxxiv. To Mr. Cunningham.. 675 

cccxxv. To Mr. Gilbert Burns. 676 

cccxxvi. To G. Thomson. 676 

cccxxvii. To Mrs, Burns. 677 

cccxxviii. To Mrs. Dunlop. 677 

cccxxix. To Mr. James Burness- 677 

cccxxx. To G. Thomson. 678 

cccxxxi. To James Grade, Esq.679 

cccxxxii. To Mr. James Armour— 679 

The Border Tour.680 

The Highland Tour. 688 


Glossary. 

Index to First Lines 
Index to Letters,... 


693 

709 

714 






























BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


Robert Burns was born about two miles to the south of Ayr, in the 
neighborhood of Alloway Kirk and tlie Bridge of Doon, on the 25th 
January, 1759. The cottage, a clay one, had been constructed by his 
father, and a week after the poet’s birth it gave way in a violent wind, 
and mother and child were carried at midnight to the shelter of a neighbor’s 
dwelling. 

When Burns beeame famous he wore, more however for ornament than 
• use—like the second jacket of a hussar—a certain vague Jacobitism. Both 
in his verses and his letters he makes allusion to the constancy with which 
his ancestors followed the banner of the Stuarts, and to the misfortunes 
which their loyalty brought upon them. The family was a Kincardine¬ 
shire one—in which county indeed, it can be traced pretty far back by in¬ 
scriptions in churchyards, documents appertaining to leases and the like— 
and the poet’s grandfather and uncles were out, it is said, in the Rebellion 
of 1715. When the title and estates of the Earl Marischal were forfeited on 
account of the uprising, Burns’s grandfather seems to have been brought 
into trouble. He lost his farm, and his son came southward in search of 
employment. The poet’s father, who spelt his name Burnes, and who 
was suspected of having a share in the Rebellion of 1745, came into the 
neighborhood of Edinburgh, where he obtained employment as a gardener. 
Afterwards he went into Ayrshire, where, becoming overseer to Mr. Fergu¬ 
son of Doonholm and leasing a few acres of land, he erected a house and 
brought home his wife, Agnes Brown, in December, 1757. Robert was the 
firstborn. Brain, hypochondria, and general superiority, he inherited from 
his father ; from his mother he drew his lyrical gift, his wit, his mirth. 
She had a fine complexion, bright dark eyes, cheerful spirits, and a memory 
stored with song and ballad—a love for which Robert drew in with her 
milk. 

In 1766, William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant in the 
parish of Ayr ; but the soil was sour and bitter, and on the death of Mr. 
Ferguson, to whom Mount Oliphant belonged, the management of the estate 
fell into the hands of a factor, of whom all the world has heard. Disputes 
arose between the official and the tenant. Harsh letters were read by the 
fireside at Mount Oliphant, and were remembered years afterwards, bitterly 
enough, by at least one of the listeners. Burnes left his farm after an 

3 



4 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


occupancy of six years, and removed to Lochlea, a larger and better one in 
the parish of Tarbolton. Here, however, an unfortunate difference arose 
between tenant and landlord as to the conditions of lease. Arbiters were 
chosen, and a decision was given in favor of the proprietor. This misfor¬ 
tune seems to have broken the spirit of Burnes. He died of consumption 
on the 13th February, 1784, aged 63, weary enough of his long strife with 
poverty and ungenial soils, but not before he had learned to take pride in 
the abilities of his eldest son, and to tremble for his passions. 

Burnes was an admirable specimen of the Scottish yeoman, or small 
farmer, of the last century ; for peasant he never was, nor did he come of 
a race of peasants. In his whole mental build and training he was supe¬ 
rior to the people by whom he was surrounded. He had forefathers he 
could look back to ; he had family traditions which he kept sacred. Hard- 
headed, industrious, religious, somewhat austere, he ruled his household 
with a despotism, which affection and respect on the part of the ruled made 
light and easy. To the blood of the Biirneses, a love of knowledge was 
native, as valor, in the old times, was native to the blood of the Douglasses. 
The poet’s grandfather built a school at Clockenhill in Kincardine, the first 
known in that part of the country. Burnes was of the same strain, and 
he resolved that his sons should have every educational advantage his 
means could allow. To secure this he was willing to rise early and drudge 
late. Accordingly, Robert, when six years old, was sent to a school at 
Alloway Mill ; and on the removal of the teacher a few months afterwards 
to another post, Burnes, in conjunction with a few of his neighbors, en¬ 
gaged Mr, John Murdoch, boarding him in their houses by turns, and 
paying him a small sum of money quarterly. Mr, Murdoch entered upon 
his duties, and had Robert and Gilbert for pupils. Under him they ac¬ 
quired reading, spelling, and writing ; they were drilled in English gram¬ 
mar, taught to turn verse into prose, to substitute synonymous expressions 
for poetical words, and to supply ellipses. He also attempted to teach 
them a little Church music, but with no great success. He seems to have 
taken to the boys, and to have been pleased with their industry and intelli¬ 
gence, Gilbert was his favorite on account of his gay spirits and frolic¬ 
some look, Robert was by comparison taciturn—distinctly stupid in the 
matter of psalmody—and his countenance was swarthy, serious, and 
grave. 

Our information respecting the family circle at Mount Oliphant, more 
interesting now than that of any other contemporary Scottish family circle, 
is derived entirely from the reminiscences of the tutor, and of Gilbert and 
Robert themselves. And however we may value every trivial fact and 
hint, and attempt to make it a window of insight, these days, as they 
passed on, seemed dull and matter-of-fact enough to all concerned. Mr. 
Murdoch considered his pupils creditably diligent, but nowise remarkable. 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


5 


To Gilbert, these early years were made interesting when looked back 
upon in the light of his brother’s glory. Of that period, Robert wrote a 
good deal at various times to various correspondents, when the world had 
become curious ; but as in the case of all such writings, he unconsciously 
mixes the past with the present—looks back on his ninth year with the 
eyes of his thirtieth. He tell us that he was by no means a favorite with 
anybody ; that though it cost the master some thrashings, “ I made an ex¬ 
cellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, 
I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles.” Also we are told that 
in the family resided a certain old woman—Betty Davidson by name, as 
research has discovered—who had the largest collection in the country of 
tales and songs concerning devils, ghost, fairies, etc.; and that to the re¬ 
cital of these Robert gave attentive ear, unconsciously laying up material 
for future * Tams-o-Shanter, and Addresses to the Deil. As for books, he 
had procured the Life of Hannibal, and the History of Sir William Wallace: 
the first of a classical turn, lent by Mr. Murdoch ; the second, purely 
traditionary, the property of a neighboring blacksmith, constituting prob¬ 
ably his entire secular library ; and in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he de¬ 
scribes how the perusal of the latter moved him,— 

“In those boyish days, I remember in particular being struck with that 
part of Wallace’s story where these lines occur ; 

Syne to the Leglen wood when it was late, 

To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and 
walked half a dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as 
much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto, and explored 
every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have 
lodged.” 

When Mr. Murdoch left Mount Oliphant, the education of the family 
fell on the father, who, when the boys came in from labor on the edge of 
the wintry twilight, lit his candle and taught them arithmetic. He also, 
when engaged in work with his sons, directed the conversation to improv¬ 
ing subjects. He got books for them from a book society in Ayr ; among 
which are named Derham’s Physico and Astro-Theology, and Ray’s Wisdom 
of God. Stackhouse’s History of the Bible was in the house, and from it 
Robert contrived to extract a considerable knowledge of ancient history. 
Mr. Murdoch sometimes visited the family and brought books with him. 
On one occasion he read Titus Andronicus aloud at Mount Oliphant, and 
Robert’s pure taste rose in a passionate revolt against its coarse cruelties 
and unspiritual horrors. When about fourteen years of age, he and his 
brother Gilbert were sent “ week about during a summer quarter ” to a 
parish school two or three miles distant from the farm to improve them¬ 
selves in penmanship. Next year, about midsummer, Robert spent three 



6 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


weeks with his tutor, Murdoch, who had established himself in Ayr. The 
first week was given to a careful revision of the Englisli Grammar, the 
remaining fortnight was devoted to French, and on his return he brought 
with him the Adventures of TeLemachus and a French Dictionary, and with 
these he used to work alone during his evenings. He also turned his 
attention to Latin, but does not seem to have made much progress therein, 
although in after-life he could introduce a sentence or so of the ancient 
tongue to adorn his correspondence. By the time the family had left 
Mount Oliphant, he had torn the heart out of a good many books, among 
which were several theological works, some of a philosophical nature, a few 
novels, the Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope’s Homer, and, above all, the Works 
of Allan Ramsay. These, with the Bible, a collection of English songs, 
and a collection of letters, were almost the only books he was acquainted 
with when he broke out in literature. Ho great library certainly, but he 
had a quick eye and ear, and all Ayrshire was an open page to him, filled 
with strange matter, which he only needed to read off into passionate love- 
song or blistering satire. 

In his sixteenth year the family removed from Mount Oliphant to Loch- 
lea. Here Robert and Gilbert were employed regularly on the farm, and 
received from their father £7 per annum of wages. Up till now. Burns 
had led a solitary self-contained life, with no companionship save his own 
thoughts and what books he could procure, wdth no acquaintances stive his 
father, his brother, and Mr. Murdoch. This seclusion was now about to 
cease. In his seventeenth year, “ to give his manners a finish,” he went 
to a country dancing school,—an important step in life for any young 
fellow, a specially important step for a youth of his years, heart, brain, 
and passion. In the Tarbolton dancing school the outer world with its 
fascinations burst upon him. It was like attaining majority and freedom. 
It was like coming up to London from the provinces. Here he first felt 
the sweets of society, and could assure himself of the truthfulness of his 
innate sense of superiority. At the dancing school, he encountered other 
young rustics laudably ambitious of “ brushing up their manners,” and, 
what was of more consequence, he encountered their partners also. This 
was his first season, and he was as gay as a young man of fortune who had 
entered on his first London one. His days were spent in hard work, but 
the evenings were his own, and these he seems to have spent almost en¬ 
tirely in sweethearting on his own account, or on that of others. His 
brother tells us that he was almost constantly in love. His inamoratas 
were the freckled beauties who milked cows and hoed potatoes ; but his 
passionate imagination attired them with the most wonderful graces. Pie 
was Antony, and he found a Cleopatra—for whom the world were well 
lost—in every harvest field. For some years onward he did not read much ; 
indeed, his fruitful reading, with the exception of Fergusson’s Poems, of 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


7 


which hereafter, was accomplished by the time he was seventeen ; liis 
leisure being occupied in making love to rustic maids, where his big black 
eyes could come into play. Perhaps, on the whole, looking to poetic out¬ 
come, he could not have employed himself to better purpose. 

He was now rapidly getting perilous cargo on board. The Tarbolton 
dancing school introduced him to unlimited sweethearting, and his nine¬ 
teenth summer, which he spent in the study of mensuration, at tlie school 
at Kirkoswald, made him acquainted with the interior of taverns, and with 
“ scenes of swaggering riot." He also made the acquaintance of certain 
smugglers who frequented that bare and deeply-coved coast, and seems 
to have been attracted by their lawless ways and speeches. It is charac¬ 
teristic, that in the midst of his studies, he was upset by the charms of a 
country girl who lived next door to the school. While taking the sun’s 
altitude, he observed her walking in the adjoining garden, and Love put 
Trigonometry to flight. During his stay at Kirkoswald, he had read 
8/ienstone and TIio?nson, and on his return home he maintained a literary 
correspondence with his schoolfellows, and pleased his vanity with the 
thought that he could turn a sentence with greater skill and neatness than 
any one of them. 

For some time it had been Burns’s habit to take a small portion of land 
from his father for the purpose of raising flax : and, as he had now some 
idea of settling in life, it struck him that if he could add to his farmer- 
craft the accomplishment of flax-dressing, it might not be unprofitable. He 
accordingly went to live with a relation of hismother’s in Irvine—Peacock 
by name—who followed that business, and with him for some time he 
worked with diligence and success. But while welcoming the New Year 
morning after a bacchanalian fashion, the premises took fire, and his 
schemes were laid waste. Just at this time, too—to complete his discom¬ 
fiture—he had been jilted by a sweetheart, “ who had pledged her soul to 
meet him in the field of matrimony.” In almost all the foul weather which 
Burns encountered, a woman may be discovered flitting through it like a 
stormy petrel. His residence at Irvine was a loss, in a worldly point of 
"view, but there he ripened rapidly, both spiritually and poetically. At 
Irvine, as at Kirkoswald, he made the acquaintance of persons engaged in 
contraband traffic, and he tells us that a chief friend of his “ spoke of 
illicit love with the levity of a sailor—which, hitherto, I had regarded 
with horror. There his friendship did me a mischief.” About this time, 
too, John Rankine—to whom he afterwards addressed several of his 
epistles—introduced him to St. Mary’s Lodge, in Tarbolton, and he became 
an enthusiastic Freemason. Of his mental states and intellectual progress 
we are furnished with numerous hints. He was member of a debating 
club at Tarbolton, and the question for Hallowe’en still exists in his hand¬ 
writing. It is as follows; “Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but 



8 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


without any fortime, has it in his power to marry either of two women, 
the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person nor agree¬ 
able in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm 
well enough ; the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, con¬ 
versation, and behavior, but without any fortune ; which of them shall he 
choose ? ” Not a bad subject for a collection of clever rustics to sharpen 
their wits upon ! We may surmise that Burns found himself as much 
superior in debate to his companions at the Bachelors’ Club as he had 
previously found himself superior to his Kirkoswald correspondents in 
letter-writing. The question for the Hallowe’en discussion is interesting 
mainly in so far as it indicates what kind of discussions were being at that 
time conducted in his own brain ; and also bow habitually, then and after¬ 
wards, his thinking grew out of his personal condition and surroundings. 
A question of this kind interested him more than whether, for instance, 
Cromwell deserved well of his country. Neither now nor afterwards did 
he trouble himself much about far-removed things. He cared for no other 
land than Caledonia. He did not sing of Helen’s beauty, but of the beauty 
of the country girl he loved. His poems were as much the product of his 
own farm and its immediate neighborhood, as were the clothes and shoes 
he wore, the oats and turnips he grew. Another aspect of him may be 
found in the letter addressed to his father three days before the Irvine 
flax-shop went on fire. It is infected with a magnificent hypochondriasis. 
It is written as by a Bolingbroke—by a man who had played for a mighty 
stake, and who, when defeated, could smile gloomily and turn fortune’s 
slipperiness into parables. And all the while the dark philosophy and 
the rolling periods flowed from the pen of a country lad, whose lodgings 
are understood to have cost a shilling per week, and “ whose meal was 
nearly out, but who was going to borrow till he got more.” One other 
circumstance attending his Irvine life deserves notice—his falling in with 
a copy of Fergusson’s Poems. For some time previously he had not writ¬ 
ten much, but Fergusson stirred him with emulation ; and on his removal 
to Mossgiel, shortly afterwards, he in a single winter poured forth more 
immortal verse—measured by mere quantity—than almost any poet in the 
same space of time, either before his day or after. 

Three months before the death of the elder Burns, Robert and Gilbert 
rented the farm of Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchline. The farm con¬ 
sisted of 119 acres, and its rent was £90. After the father’s death the 
whole family removed thither. Burns was now twenty-four years of age, 
and come to his full strength of limb, brain, and passion. As a young 
farmer on his own account, he mixed more freely than hitherto in the 
society of the country-side, and in a more independent fashion. He had 
the black eyes which Sir Walter saw afterwards in Edinburgh, and re¬ 
membered to have " glowed.” He had wit, which convulsed tne ivTasonic 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


9 


Meetings, and a rough-and-ready sarcasm with which he flayed his foes. 
Besides all this, his companionship at Irvine had borne its fruits. He had 
become the father of an illegitimate child, had been rebuked for his trans¬ 
gression before the congregation, and had, in revenge, written witty and 
wicked verses on the reprimand and its occasion, to his correspondent 
Rankine. And when we note here that he came into fierce collision with 
at least one section of the clergy of his country, all the conditions have 
been indicated which went to make up Burns the man and Burns the 
poet. 

Ayrshire was at this period a sort of theological bear-garden. The 
more important clergymen of the district were divided into New Lights 
and Auld Lights; they wrangled in Church Courts, they wrote and ha¬ 
rangued against each other; and, as the adherents of the one party or the 
other made up almost the entire population, and as in such disputes 
Scotchmen take an extraordinary interest, the county was set very prettily 
by the ears. The Auld Light divines were strict Calvinists, laying great 
stress on the doctrine of Justification by Faith, and inclined generally to 
exercise spiritual authority after a somewhat despotic fashion. The New 
Light divines were less dogmatic, less inclined to religious gloom and 
acerbity, and they possessed, on the whole, more literature and knowledge 
of the world. Burns became deeply interested in the theological warfare, 
and at once ranged himself on the liberal side. From his being a poet this 
was to have been expected, but various circumstances concurred in mak¬ 
ing his partisanship more than usually decided. The elder Burnes was, 
in his ways of thinking, a New Light, and his religious notions he im¬ 
pressed carefully on his children,—his son consequently, in taking up the 
ground he did, was acting in accordance with received ideas and with 
early training. Besides, Burns’s most important friends at this period— 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, from whom he held his farm on a sub-lease, and Mr. 
Aitken, to whom the Cotter’s Saturday Night was dedicated—were in the 
thick of the contest on the New Light side. Mr. Hamilton was engaged 
in personal dispute with the Rev. Mr. Auld—the clergyman who rebuked 
Burns—and Mr. Aitken had the management of the case of Dr. MacGill, 
who was cited before the local Church Courts on a charge of heterodoxy. 
Hamilton and Aitken held a certain position in the county,—they were 
full of talent, they were hospitable, they were witty in themselves, and 
could appreciate wit in others. They were of higher social rank than 
Burns’s associates had hitherto been, they had formed a warm friendship 
for him, and it was not unnatural that he should become their ally, and 
serve their cause with what weapons he had. Besides, wit has ever been 
a foe to the Puritan. Cavaliers fight with song and jest, as well as with 
sword and spear, and sometimes more effectively. Hudibras and Worces¬ 
ter are flung into opposite scales, and make the balance even. From 



10 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


training and temperament, Burns was an enemy of the Auld Light sec¬ 
tion; conscious of his powers, and burning to distinguish himself, he 
searched for an opportunity as anxiously as ever did Irishman for a head 
at Donnybrook, and when he found it, he struck, without too curiously 
inquiring into the rights and wrongs of the matter. At Masonic Meetings, 
at the tables of his friends, at fairs, at gatherings round church-doors 
on Sundays, he argued, talked, joked, flung out sarcasms—to be gathered 
up, repeated, and re-repeated—and maddened in every way the wild-boar 
of orthodoxy by the javelins of epigram. The satirical opportunity at 
length came, and Burns was not slow to take advantage of it. Two Auld 
Light divines, the Rev. John Russel and the Rev. Alex. Moodie, quarrelled 
about their respective parochial boundaries, and the question came before 
the Presbytery for settlement. In the court—when Burns was present— 
the reverend gentlemen indulged in coarse personal altercation, and the 
Iwa Herds was the result. Copies of this satire were handed about, and 
for the first time Burns tasted how sweet a thing was applause. The 
circle of his acquaintances extended itself, and he could now call several 
clergymen of the moderate party his friends. The Twa Herds was followed 
by the tremendous satire of Holy Willie's Prayer, and by the Holy Fair ,— 
the last equally witty, equally familiar in its allusions to sacred things, 
but distinguished by short poetic touches, by descriptions of character and 
manners, unknown in Scottish poetry since the days of Dunbar. These 
pieces caused great stir: friends admired and applauded; foes hated and 
reviled. His brother Gilbert spoke words of caution which, had Burns 
heeded, it would have been better for his fame. But to check such thunder 
in mid-volley was, perhaps, more than could have been expected of poetic 
flesh and blood. 

Burns interested himself deeply in the theological disputes of his dis¬ 
trict, but he did not employ himself entirely in writing squibs against that 
section of the clergy which he disliked. Fie had already composed Mailie's 
Elegy and the Epistle to Davie: the first working in an element of humor 
ennobled by moral reflection, a peculiar manner in which he lived to pro¬ 
duce finer specimens; the second almost purely didactie, and which he 
hardly ever surpassed; and as he was now in the full flush of inspiration, 
every other day produced its poem. He did not go far a-field for his sub¬ 
jects; he found sufficient inspiration in his daily life and the most famil¬ 
iar objects. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton had established a shop for 
groceries, and having a liking for the study of medicine, he took upon him¬ 
self the airs of a physician, and advertised that “advice would be given 
in common disorders, at the shop, gratis.” On one occasion, at the Tar¬ 
bolton Mason-lodge, when Burns was present, the schoolmaster made a 
somewhat ostentatious display of his medical acquirements. To a man so 
easily moved as Burns, this hint was sufficient. On his way home from 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


II 


the Lodge the terrible grotesqiierie of Death and Dr. Hornbook floated 
through his mind, and on the following afternoon the verses were repeated 
to Gilbert. Not long after, in a Sunday afternoon walk, he recited to Gil¬ 
bert the (Jotter's Saturday Nighty who described himself as electrified by 
the recital—as indeed he might well be. To Gilbert also the Address to 
the Deil was repeated while the two brothers ivere engaged with their 
carts in bringing home coals for family use. At this time, too, his poetic 
Epistles to Lapraik and others w^ere composed—pieces which for rerre and 
hurry and gush of versification seem to have been written at a sitting, yet 
for curious felicities of expression might have been under the file for years. 
It was Burns’s habit, Mr. Chambers tells us, to keep his MSS. in the 
drawer of a little deal table in the garret at Mossgiel; and his youngest 
sister was wont, when he w^ent out to afternoon labor, to slip up quietly 
and hunt for the freshly-written verses. Indeed, during the winter of 
1785-86 Burns wrote almost all the poems which were afterwards pub¬ 
lished in the Kilmarnock edition. 

But at this time he had other matters on hand than the writing of verses. 
The farm at Mossgiel was turning out badly; the soil w^as sour and wet, 
and, from mistakes in the matter of seed, the crops were failures. His 
prospects were made still darker by his relation with Jean Armour. He 
had made the acquaintance of this young woman at a penny w^edding in 
Mauchline, shortly after he went to reside at Mossgiel, and the acquaint¬ 
anceship, on his part at least, soon ripened into passion. In the spring of 
1786, when baited with farming difficulties, he learned that Jean was about 
to become a mother, and the intelligence came on him like a thunder clap. 
Urged by a very proper feeling, he resolved to make the unhappy young 
w'oman all the reparation in his power, and accordingly he placed in her 
hands a written acknowledgment of marriage—a document sufficient by 
the law of Scotland to legalize their connexion, though after a somewhat 
irregular fashion. When Mr. Armour heard of Jean’s intimacy with Burns 
and its miserable result, he was moved with indignation, and he finally 
persuaded her to deliver into his hands Burns’s written paper, and this 
document he destroyed, although, for anything he knew, he destroyed 
along with it his daughter’s good fame. Burns’s feelings at this crisis 
may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove for mastery in his 
breast. Weary of his country, almost of his existence, and seeing ruin 
staring him in the face at Mossgiel, he resolved to seek better fortune and 
solace for a lacerated heart, in exile. Fie accordingly arranged with Dr. 
Douglas to act as book-keeper on his estate in Jamaica. In order to earn 
the passage money, he was advised to publish the wonderful verses then 
lying in the drawer of the deal table at Mossgiel. This advice jumped 
pleasantly enough with his own wishes, and without loss of time he issued 
his subscription papers and began to prepare for the press. Fie knew that 




12 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


his poems possessed merit; he felt that applause would sweeten his “good 
night.” It is curious to think of Burns’s wretched state—in a spiritual as 
well as a pecuniary sense—at this time, and of the centenary the other 
year which girdled the planet as with a blaze of festal fire and a roll of 
triumphal drums! Curious to think that the volume which Scotland 
regards as the most precious in her possession should have been published 
to raise nine pounds to carry its author into exile. 

All the world has heard of Highland Mary—in life a maid-servant in the 
family of Mr. Hamilton, after death to be remembered with Dante’s Bea¬ 
trice and Petrarch’s Laura. How Burns and Mary became acquainted we 
have little means of knowing—indeed the whole relationship is somewhat 
obscure—but Burns loved her as he loved no other woman, and her mem¬ 
ory is preserved in the finest expression of his love and grief. Strangely 
enough, it seems to have been in the fierce rupture between himself and 
Jean that this white flower of love sprang up, sudden in its growth, brief 
in its passion and beauty. It was arranged that the lovers should become 
man and wife, and that Mary should return to her friends to prepare for 
her wedding. Before her departure there was a farewell scene. “ On the 
second Sunday of May,” Burns writes to Mr. Thomson, after an historical 
fashion which has something touching in it, “ in a sequestered spot on the 
banks of the Ayr the interview took place.” The lovers met and plighted 
solemn troth. According to popular statement, they stood on either side 
of a brook, they dipped their hands in the water, exchanged Bibles—and 
parted. Mary died at Greenock, and was buried in a dingy churchyard 
hemmed by narrow streets—beclanged now by innumerable hammers, and 
within a stone’s throw of passing steamers. Information of her death was 
brought to Burns at Mossgiel; he went to the window to read the letter, 
and the family noticed that on a sudden his face changed. He went out 
without speaking, they respected his grief and were silent. On the whole 
matter Burns remained singularly reticent; but years after, from a sudden 
geyser of impassioned song, we learn that through all that time she had 
never been forgotten. 

Jean was approaching her confinement, and having heard that Mr. Ar¬ 
mour was about to resort to legal measures to force him to maintain his 
expected progeny—an impossibility in his present circumstances—Burns 
left Mauchline and went to reside in the neighborhood of Kilmarnock, 
where, in gloomy mood enough, he corrected his proof sheets. The vol¬ 
ume appeared about the end of July, and thanks to the exertion of his 
friends, the impression was almost immediately exhausted. Its success 
was decided. All Ayrshire rang with its praise. His friends were of 
course anxious that he should remain in Scotland; and as they possessed 
some influence he lingered in Ayrshire, loth to depart, hoping that some¬ 
thing would turn up, but quite undecided as to the complexion and nature 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


13 


of the desired something. Wronged as he considered himself to have been 
by the Armour family, he was still conscious of a lingering affection for 
Jean. The poems, having made a conquest of Ayrshire, began to radiate 
out on every side. Professor Dugald Stewart, then resident at Catrine, 
had a copy of the poems, and Dr. Blair, who was on a visit to the profes¬ 
sor, had his attention drawn to them, and expressed the warmest admira¬ 
tion. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop on opening the book had been electrified by 
the Cotter’s Saturday Night, as Gilbert had been before her, and imme¬ 
diately sent an express to Burns at Mossgiel with a letter of praise and 
thanks. All this was pleasant enough, but it did not materially mend the 
situation. Burns could not live on praise alone, and accordingly, so soon 
as he could muster nine guineas from the sale of his book, he took a steer¬ 
age passage in a vessel which was expected to sail from Greenock at the 
end of September. During the month of August he seems to have em¬ 
ployed himself in collecting subscriptions, and taking farewell of his 
friends. Burns was an enthusiastic Mason, and we can imagine that his 
last meeting with the Tarbolton Lodge would be a thing to remember. It 
was remembered, we learn from Mr. Chambers, by a surviving brother, 
John Lees. John said, “that Burns came in a pair of buckskins, out of 
which he would always pull the other shilling for the other bowl, till it 
was five in the morning. An awfu’ night that.” Care left outside the 
door, we can fancy how the wit would flash, and the big black eyes glow, 
on such an occasion! 

The first edition of his poems being nearly exhausted, his friends encour¬ 
aged him to produce a second forthwith; but, on application, it was found 
that the Kilmarnock printer declined to undertake the risk, unless the price 
of the paper was advanced beforehand. This outlay Burns was at this time 
unable to afford. On hearing of the circumstance, his friend Mr. Ballan- 
tyne offered to advance the money, but urged him to proceed to Edinburgh 
and publish the second edition there. This advice commended itself to 
Burns’s ambition, but for awhile he remained irresolute. Jean, meanwhile, 
had been confined of twins, and from one of his letters we learn that the 
“ feelings of a father” kept him lingering in Ayrshire. News of the suc¬ 
cess of his poems came in upon him on every side. Dr. Lawrie, minister 
of Loudon, to whose family he had recently paid a visit, had forwarded a 
copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author’s life, to Dr. Thomas Black- 
lock, and had received a letter from that gentleman, expressing the warm¬ 
est admiration of the writer’s genius, and urging that a second and larger 
edition should at once be proceeded with; adding, that “its intrinsic 
merits, and the exertions of the author’s friends, might give the volume 
a more universal circulation than anything of the kind which has been 
published in my time.” This letter, so full of encouragement. Dr. Lawrie 
carried at once to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and Mr. Hamilton lost no time in 




14 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


placing it in Burns’s hands. The poems had been favorably reviewed in 
the Edinburgh Magazine for October, and this number of the periodical, so 
interesting to all its inmates, would, no doubt, find its way to Mossgiel. 
Burns seems to have made up his mind to proceed to Edinburgh about 
the 18th November, a step which was warmly approved by his brother 
Gilbert: and when his resolution was taken, he acted upon it with 
promptitude 

He reached Edinburgh on the 28th November, 1786, and took up his 
residence with John Richmond, a- Mauchline acquaintance, who occupied 
a room in Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, for which he paid three shillings a 
week Burns for some time after his arrival seems to have had no special 
object, he wandered about the city, looking down from the castle on 
Princes Street, haunting Holyrood Palace and Chapel; standing with 
cloudy eyelid and hands meditatively knit beside the grave of Fergusson; 
and from the Canongate glancing up with interest on the quaint tenement 
In which Allan Ramsay kept his shop, wrote his poems, and curled the 
wigs of a departed generation of Scotsmen. At the time of Burns’s ar¬ 
rival the Old Town towered up from Holyrood to the Castle, picturesque, 
smcrke wreathed, and when the darkness came, its climbing tiers of lights 
and cressets were reflected in the yet existing Nor’ Loch; and the gray 
uniform streets and squares of the New Town—from which the visitor to¬ 
day can look down on low wooded lands, the Forth, and Fite beyond— 
were, only in course of erection. The literary society of the time was bril¬ 
liant but exotic, like the French lily or the English rose. For a genera¬ 
tion and more the Scottish Philosophers, historians, and poets had brought 
their epigram from France as they brought their claret, and their humor 
from England as they brought their parliamentary intelligence. Blair of 
the Qrare was a Scottish Dr. Young; Home of Douglas a Scottish Otway; 
Mackenzie a Scottish Addison; and Dr. Blair—so far as his criticism was 
concerned—a sort of Scottish Dr. Johnson. The Scotch brain was genuine 
enough, the faculty was native, but it poured itself into foreign moulds. 
The literary grandees wore decorations—honestly earned—but no one 
could discover amongst them the Order of the Thistle. These men, too, 
had done their work, and the burly black-eyed, humorous, passionate 
ploughman came up amongst them, the herald of a new day and a new 
order of things the first king of a new literary empire, in which he was 
to be succeedea by Walter Scott,—then a lad of sixteen, engrossing deeds 
in his father’s office, with the Tweed murmuring in his ears, and Melrose 
standing in the light of his opening imagination—with Hogg, Galt, Wil¬ 
son, Lockhart, and the rest, for his satraps and lieutenants. 

Burns’s arrival in Edinburgh was an historical event, far more impor¬ 
tant in itself, and in its issues, thap either he or than any other person sus^ 
pectei’ 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


15 


He soon got to work, however. In Ayrshire he had made the acquaint¬ 
ance of Mr. Dalrymple of Orangetield; that gentleman introduced him to his 
brother-in-law, the Earl of Glencairn, then resident in Edinburgh; and his 
lordship introduced him to William Creech, the leading publisher in the 
city, at whose shop the wits were wont to congregate. Creech undertook 
the publication of the new edition; and, through'the influence of Glen¬ 
cairn, it was arranged that the Caledonian Hunt should subscribe for a 
hundred copies, and that a guinea should be paid for each. Meantime, 
Mr. Mackenzie, in the Lounger, of date 9th December, wrote a glowing 
criticism on the poems, which smoothed a way for them into the politer 
circles. The new edition, dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt, appeared on 
the 21st April, 1787, containing a list of subscribers’ names extending to 
more than thirty-eight pages. The Hunt, as we have seen, took one hun¬ 
dred copies, and several gentlemen and noblemen subscribed liberally—one 
taking twenty copies, a second forty copies, a third forty-two copies. The 
Scots Colleges in France and Spain are also set down as subscribers among 
individual names. This was splendid success, and Burns felt it. He was 
regarded as a phenomenon; was asked hither and thither, frequently from 
kindness and pure admiration—often, however, to be merely talked with 
and stared at: this he felt, too, and his vengeful spleen, well kept under 
on th.b whole, corroded his heaifc like a fierce acid. During the winter pre¬ 
ceding the publication of the second edition, he was feted and caressed. 
He was patronized by the Duchess of Gordon. Lord Glencairn was his 
friend, so also was Henry Erskine. He was frequently at Lord Mon- 
boddo’s, where he admired the daughter’s beauty more than the father’s 
philosophy; he breakfasted with Dr. Blair; he walked in the mornings to 
the Braid Hills with Professor Dugald Stewart; and he frequently escaped 
from these lofty circles to the Masonic Lodge, or to the supper-tables of 
convivial lawyers, where he felt no restraint, where he could be wounded 
by no patronage, and where he flashed and coruscated, and became the soul 
of the revel. Fashionable and lettered saloons were astonished by Burns’s 
talk; but the interior of taverns—and in Edinburgh tavern life was all but 
universal at the time—saw the brighter and more constant blaze. This 
sudden change of fortune—so different from his old life in the Irvine flax 
heckling-shop, or working the sour Mossgiel lands, or the post of a book¬ 
keeper in Jamaica, which he looked forward to and so narrowly escaped— 
was not without its giddy and exciting pleasures, and for pleasure of every 
kind Burns had the keenest relish. How and again, too, in the earlier days 
of his Edinburgh life, when success wore its newest gloss, and applause 
had a novel sweetness, a spirit of exhilaration escaped him, not the less 
real that it was veiled in a little scornful exaggeration. In writing to Mr. 
Hamilton, he says. “ For my own affairs, 1 am in a fair way of becoming 
as eminent as Thomas a Kempis, or John Bunyan; and you may ex pec' 




i6 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the 
Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the 
battle of Bothwell Bridge.” In any case, if he did feel flattered by the 
attention paid him by society, he had time to cool and strike a balance in 
his friend Richmond’s garret in the Lawnmarket—where he slept, Mr 
Lockhart informs us, during the whole of that glittering and exciting 
winter. 

Hitherto, the world had seen but little of Burns personally It had 
heard his voice as of one singing behind the scenes, and been moved 
admiration ; and when he presented himself in the full blaze of the foot¬ 
lights, he became the cynosure of every eye, and the point on wdiich con¬ 
verged every critical opera-glass. Edinburgh and Burns confronted each 
other. Edinburgh “ took stock ” of Burns, Burns “took stock” of Edin¬ 
burgh, and it is interesting to note the mutual impressions. From all that 
can be gathered from Dr. Blair, Professors Dugald Stewart, Walker, and 
others. Burns acquitted himself in his new circumstances admirably. He 
never lost head, he never let a word of exultation escape him, his deport¬ 
ment was everywhere respectful yet self-possessed, he talked well and 
freely—for he knew he was expected to talk—but he did not engross con¬ 
versation. His “deferential” address won his way to female favor and 
the only two breaches of decorum which are recorded of him in society, 
may be palliated by his probable ignorance of his liost’s feelings and vani¬ 
ties on the first occasion, and on the second, by the peculiar provocation 
he received. Asked in Dr. Blair’s house, and in Dr. Blair’s presence, from 
which of the city preachers he had derived the greatest gratification, it 
would have been fulsome had Burns said, turning to the Doctor, • I con¬ 
sider you. Sir, the greatest pulpit orator I have ever heard.'’ The ques¬ 
tion was a most improper one in the circumstances; and if the company 
were thrown into a state of foolish embarrassment, and the host’s feelmgs 
wounded by Burns giving the palm to his colleague—then the company 
were simply toadies of the sincerer sort, and the host less skilled in tlie 
world’s ways than Burns, and possessed of less natural good-breeding in 
the second instance when, in a sentence more remarkable for force dian 
grace, he extinguished a clergyman who abused Gray’s Elegy, but who 
could not quote a line of it correctly, he merely gave way to a swifr and 
not ungenerous instinct—for which he was, no doubt, sorry the next 
moment. He cannot be defended altogether, although even here one can 
hardly help rendering him a sneaking approval. Bad.language at a break¬ 
fast-table, and addressed to a clergyman, is improper—but, on the other 
hand, no clergyman has a right to be a bore at a breakfast-table Indeed, 
your critical and blundering bore, whether clergyman or no—all the more 
sedulously, perhaps, if he he a clergyman—should keep out of the way of 
a Burns. Evil is certain to befall him il he do not. It is pretty evident, 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


17 


however, from the records left, that Dr. Blair, Dugald Stewart, and others, 
did not really know Burns—did not, in fact, take much pains to know him. 
They never met him on frank, cordial, and brotherly terms. They looked 
on him curiously, as one looks on a strange insect, through a microscope. 
From their learned heights they regarded him as on the plain beneath. 
They were ever ready with advice, and counselled him to stand armed at 
points where no danger could possibly appear. Of all the good things in 
the world, advice is practically the least useful. If a man is fool enough 
to need advice, the chances are he will be fool enough to resent it when 
given, or neglect it when the critical moment arrives. The Edinburgh 
literati did not quite well know what to make of Burns. He was a new 
thing under the sun, and they could not fall back on precedent. They 
patronized him kindly, heartily, for the most part—but still it was pat¬ 
ronage. And it has come about that, in the lapse of sevei ty years, the 
relations of the parties have been quite reversed—as in dissolving views, 
the image of Burns has come out in bolder reliei and brighter colors, while 
his patrons have lost outline, have dwindled, and become shadowy. Dr. 
Blair and Lord Monboddo will be remembered mainly by the circumstance 
that the one invited Burns to his evening entertainments, and the other 
to his breakfasts. Burns has kept that whole li*^erary generation from 
oblivion, and from oblivion he will keep it yet awhile. 

' On the other hand, it is quite evident, that although Burns, during that 
brilliant winter, masked himself skilfully, he bore an inward smart. He 
felt that he was regarded as meteoric, a wonder; tha^ he did not fit into 
existing orders of things, and that in Edinburgh he had no familiar and 
received status. Consequently, he was never sure of his ground; and 
while, for the most part, careful to offend no one, he was passionately 
jealous of condescension and suspicious of personal affront. The men 
amongst whom he mingled had their positions in the world, and ii. these 
positions they had the ease of use and wont. Their couches were made 
soft by the down of customariness. They had all the social proprieties 
and traditions at their backs. From the past, the} flowered out socially 
and professionally. With Burns everything was different. He had in 
Edinburgh, so to speak, neither father nor mother. He had neither pre¬ 
decessor nor antecedent. He could roll in no groove made smooth by cus¬ 
tom; and hence it is, when in bitter mood, we find him making such ex¬ 
travagant claims for genius against dull rich men, or dull well born men. 
or semi-dull men, who had been successful in the professions. He knew 
that genius was his sole claim to the notice of the brilliant personages he 
met night after night; that but for it he was a small Ayrshire farmer, 
whom not one of those people would invite to their tables, or bid *' Good 
day ” to, if they met him on a country road. It was admirable in Scott, 
to waive, as he continually did, all claim to special regard on account of 




i8 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


his genius, but it was easy for Scott to do this. Scott w^ould have dined 
well every day of his life, he would have lived with cultivated and refined 
people, and would have enjoyed a fair share of social distinction, although 
he had never written Marmion or Ivanlwe. But Burns’s sole title to notice 
was genius—take that from him, he was instantly denuded of his singing 
robes, and left in the hodden gray of the farmer, with a splash of mud on 
his top-boots. In his commonplace book—a very pool of Marah—which 
he kept at Edinburgh, there is an entry which brings all this out in a clear 

light. 

“There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness 
ind chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed 
worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a mere ordinary 
character, decorated with the trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, 
meets. Imagine a man of abilities, his heart glowing with honest pride, 
conscious that men are born equal, still giving liomr to wlwm Iwrwr is due; 
he meets at a great man’s table a Squire Sometlimg, or a Sir Somebody; 
he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a 
share of his good wishes, beyond perhaps any one at table; yet how will 
it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely have made 
an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet 
with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and 
poverty! 

“ The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly 
esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention, engrossing 
attention, one day, to the only blockhead at table (the whole company 
consisted of his lordship, dunder-pate, and myself), that I was within hall 
a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance; but he 
shook my hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God bless 
him! though I should never see him more I shall love him until my dying 
day I I am pleased to think I am so capable of the throes of gratitude, as 
I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

“With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with 
humble veneration; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, 
or, still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on 
equal groui"^ in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called 
liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcase of greatness, or when 
his eye measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to 
myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp 
either ? ” 

A man like Burns, living at a period when literature had not to any ex¬ 
tent become a profession, could not find his place amongst the recognized 
forces of the world—was doomed forever to be an outsider—and therein 
lay the tragedy of his life. He was continually making comparisons be¬ 
tween his own evil fortune and the good fortune of others. Proud, sus- 






BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


19 


picious, swift to take offence, when his amour-propre was wounded, he 
was apt to salve it in the company of revellers whom he could meet on 
equal terms, and in whose society he could take out his revenge in sarcasm. 
As regards mere brain, he does not seem to have entertained any remark¬ 
able respect for the Edinburgh men of letters. He considered he had met 
as much intellectual capacity—unpolished and in the rough—in Tarbolton 
debating societies, Mauchline masonic meetings, and at the tables of the 
writers of Kilmarnock and Ayr. He admitted, however, that his residence 
in Edinburgh had brought him in contact with something new—a refined 
and accomplished woman. The admission is important, and meeting it 
one fancies for a moment that one has caught some sort of explanation of 
his future life. What might have been the result had Burns secured a 
career in which his fancy and intellect could have exercised themselves, 
and a wife, who to affection added refinement and accomplishment, we 
may surmise, but cannot tell. A career he never secured; and on his re¬ 
turn to Ayrshire, in passionate blindness, he forged chains for himself 
which he could not break—which it would have been criminal in him to 
have attempted to break. 

From Burns’s correspondence while in Edinburgh we can see in what 
way he regarded his own position and prospects. He admitted that 
applause was pleasant; he knew that as a poet he possessed some merit, 
but he constantly expressed his conviction that much of his success arose 
from the novelty of a poet appearing in his rank of life; and he congratu¬ 
lates himself on the circumstances that—let literary reputation wax or 
wane—he had “an independence at the plough-tail” to fall back upon. 
He foresaw from the beginning that Edinburgh could be nothing more 
than a striking episode in his life, and that he was fated to return to 
the rural shades. Early in the year he had some conversation with Mr. 
Patrick Miller, relative to his becoming a tenant on that gentleman’s estate 
at Dalswinton, and had promised to run down to Dumfriesshire and look 
at the lands some time in the following May. That Mr. Miller was anxious 
to serve Burns, seems to have been generally known in Edinburgh; for in 
Dr. Blair’s letter, dated on 4th May, 1787, in answer to a note written by 
Burns on the previous day, intimating that he was about to leave town, 
the Doctor supposes that he is “going down to Dalswinton to look at some 
of Mr. Miller’s farms.” Before his return. Burns did intend to look at 
these farms, but at the moment farming was not the principal business in 
hand. He, in company with his young friend Ainslie, was on the wing 
for the south of Scotland—a district which was calling him with a hun¬ 
dred voices of tradition and ballad. On the day before starting, he sent 
Mr. Johnson, editor of the Scot's Musical Museum, a cordial letter, for he 
had entered with enthusiasm into that gentleman’s work, and already 
written for it one or two songs—preliminary drops of the plenteous 

18—Burns—B 






20 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


summer-shower which has kept so many secret places of the heart fresh 

and green. . , 

The companions left Edinburgh on horseback on 5th May. They visited 
Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Jedburgh, Melrose, Dry burgh, and Yarrow- 
Burns scattering jokes and epigrams all the way. About the middle of 
the month Ainslie returned to Edinburgh, and Burns then crossed into Eng¬ 
land, saw Hexham and Newcastle, and returned home by Carlisle and 
Dumfries. From Dumfries he went to Dalswinton, looked over the estate, 
but did not seem much enamored of its condition. He, however, arranged 
to meet Mr. Miller in August. He then came by Sanquhar to Mauchline, 
and dropped in upon his family unannounced. His meeting with these 
reticent hearts must be left to imagination. He went out from them ob¬ 
scure • he returned to them illustrious, with a nimbus around his head. 
At home he renewed acquaintanceship with old friends, and found that 
Mr. Armour, who had treated him coldly in the day of his poverty and 
obscurity, was now inclined to regard him with a favorable eye—a circum¬ 
stance which seems to have kindled Burns into unreasonable rage. “If 
anything,” he writes to his correspondent Smith, “had been wanting to 
disgust me completely with the Armour family, their mean, servile com¬ 
pliance would have done it.” The proud spirit which rankled in Edin¬ 
burgh seems to have rankled no less bitterly in Ayrshire. A few days 
after he wrote to Mr. William Nicol, master of the High School, Edinburgh 
—then and afterwards one of his chiefest friends : “I never, my friend, 
thought mankind very capable of anything generous ; but the stateliness 
of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the civility of my plebeian brethren 
(who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I returned home, have 
nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a 
pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually about with me, in order to study 
the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inde¬ 
pendence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that 
great personage, Satan.” At this precise period, it is somewhat hard to 
understand whence came the bitterness which wells up in almost every 
letter which Burns wrote. He was famous, he was even comparatively 
rich, but he had an eye which, constitutionally, regarded the seamy side 
of things. Probably, in no possible combination of fortunate circumstances 
could Burns have been a contented and happy man. He had Ulysses’ 
hungry heart, which could be satisfied with no shore, however green, 
and pleasant, which must needs sail beyond the sunset. While residing 
at Mauchline, he accidentally met Jean, and affectionate intimacy was re¬ 
newed, as if no anger or bitterness had ever estranged them. 

Towards the end of June he went alone to the West Highlands, without 
any apparent motive, if not drawn by the memory of Mary Campbell. 
Of his movements in this trip we have no very precise information. At 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


21 


Inverary, where he could find accommodation neither in Castle nor Inn, he 
left an epigram which has become famous. In a letter to Mr. J. Smith,— 
a fair specimen of his more familiar epistolary style,—dated 30th June, 
we have some slight information respecting his doings, and a description 
of certain “ high jinks ” in the north, in which he was an actor. Although 
the letter is dated as above, it does not state at what place it was written 
—Burns, perhaps, wishing to keep his secret. 

“ On our return, at a Highland gentleman’s hospitable mansion, we fell 
in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the 
morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal 
movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals ; then 
we flew at ‘Bab at the Bowster,’ ‘ Tullochgorum,’ ‘Loch Erroch Side,* 
etc., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or crows prognosticating a 
storm on a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, we ranged round the 
bowl, to the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes that we went 
out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the 
towering top of Ben Lomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord’s 
son held the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand; and I, as priest, re¬ 
peated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer’s prophecies, I sup¬ 
pose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to 
spend the day on Loch Lomond and reached Dumbarton in the evening. 
We dined at another good fellow’s house, and consequently pushed the 
bottle ; when we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves ‘ No 
vera fou, but gaylie yet.’ My two friends and I rode soberly down the 
Loch side, till by came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good 
horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We 
scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and 
spur. My companions though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern; 
but my old mare Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past 
the Highlandman, in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter. Just as 
1 was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me, to 
mar my progress, when down came his horse, and threw his breekless rider 
in a dipt hedge; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my hardship 
between her and the Highlandman’s horse. Jenny Geddes trode over me 
with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad as might have 
been expected; so I came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough 
resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

“ I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. 
I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless idle fellow. 
However, 1 shall somewhere have a farm soon.” 

Whatever motive may have induced Burns to visit the West Highlands, 
he returned to Mossgiel somewhat shaken by the escapade related above. 
During the ensuing month he wrote his autobiographical sketch to Dr. 



22 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


Moove and on the 7th August he returned to Edinburgh to settle business 
mattera with his publisher, and to arrange other excursions through dis- 
tricts of the country in which he had a great interest. 

Near the close of August, Burns and Nicol started on a northern tour. 
They went by Falkirk and Stirling, visited the field of Bannockburn, and 
on their return to Stirling, Burns, with a diamond which he had recently 
purchased—the most unfortunate of all his investments, as it turned out 
scribbled certain perilous verses on a window-pane of the inn. They then 
struck into Perthshire, admired the Palls of Moness, where Burns wrote 
The Birks of Aberfeldy; visited Blair, the seat of the Duke of Athole, 
where they were hospitably entertained, and where Burns met his future 
patron, Mr. Graham of Fintry, and narrowly missed meeting Mr. Dundas 
—a piece of ill-fortune which his biographers agree in lamenting. The 
travellers then proceeded to Inverness, went to Culloden, spent some time 
at the ruined cathedral of Elgin; crossed the Spey, and visited the Duke 
of Gordon—which visit was cut short by an ebullition of wounded pride 
on the part of Nicol. From Castle Gordon they came by Banff to Aber¬ 
deen; Burns then crossed into Kincardineshire—of which county his father 
was a native—and spent some time in hunting up his relations there. He 
then went to Montrose, where he met his cousin, Mr. James Burness, and 
returned to Edinburgh by Perth and Dundee. 

In the beginning of October, according to Mr. Chambers,—for there 
seems to be a little obscurity as to date,—Burns, accompanied by Dr. 
Adair, set out on a visit to Sir William Murray of Ochtertyre, and passing 
through Stirling, he broke the pane in the inn on which he had inscribed 
the treasonable lines. Unhappily, however, he could not by this means 
put them out of existence, as they had been widely copied and circulated, 
and were alive in many memories. At Ochtertyre he spent one or two 
pleasant days, and while in the neighborhood he took the opportunity of 
visiting Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, who was in possession of the helmet 
and sword of the Bruce, and with the latter she conferred on the poet and 
his guide the honor of knighthood, remarking as she did so, that she had 
a bePer right to give the title than some people. He returned to Edin¬ 
burgh by Kinross and Queensferry, and while at Dunfermline some cir¬ 
cumstances took place, trivial in themselves, but important as exhibiting 
what rapM changes took place in the weather of the poet’s mind. 

“ At Dunfermline,” says Dr. Adair, we visited the ruined abbey and the 
abbey churc h, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutty stool, or stool of repentance, assuming the character of a penitent 
for fornication, while Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ridiculous 
reproof and exhortation, parodied from that which had been delivered to 
himself in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, once been one of 
seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


23 


“ In the churchyard two broad flagstones marked the grave of Robert 
Bruce, for whose memory Burns had more than common veneration. He 
knelt and kissed the stone with sacred fervor, and heartily execrated the 
worse than Gothic neglect of the first of Scottish heroes. 

Burns was now resident in St. James’s Square, in the house of William 
Cruickshank, who was, like Nicol, connected with the Edinburgh High 
School. His chief business was the arrangement of publishing matters 
with Creech, and he was anxious to come to some definite conclusion with 
Mr. Miller regarding a farm at Dalswinton. On his return from Ochter- 
tyre he wrote that gentleman in practical terms enough: “ 1 want to be a 
farmer in a small farm, about a plough-gang, in a pleasant country, under 
the auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion of being a tenant 
on easier terms than another. To find a farm where one can live at all is 
not easy. I only mean living soberly, like an old style farmer, and joining 
personal industry. The banks of the Nith are as sweet poetic ground as 
any I ever saw; and besides, sir, ’tis but justice to the feelings of my own 
heart, and the opinion of my best friends, to say that I would wish to call 
you landlord sooner than any landed gentleman I know. These are my views 
and wishes; and in whatever way you think best to lay out your farms, I 
shall be happy to rent one of them. I shall certainly be able to ride to 
Dalswinton about the middle of next week.” Burns, however, did not go 
to Dumfriesshire so early as he expected. There was dilatoriness on 
Creech’s part regarding settlements as to the poems; there was perhaps,dila¬ 
toriness on Burns’s part regarding the farm: at all events, autumn had glided 
into winter, and he remained in Edinburgh without having come to a conclu¬ 
sion with either. The winter, however, was destined to open one of the 
strangest chapters in his strange story. At this time he made the acquaint¬ 
ance of Mrs. M‘Lehose, the Clarinda of so many impassioned letters. This 
lady, who was possessed of no common beauty and intelligence, had been 
deserted by her husband, and was bringing up her children in somewhat 
narrow circumstances. They met at tea in the house of a common friend, 
and were pleased with each other’s conversation. The second night after. 
Burns was to have drunk tea by invitation at the house of Mrs. M'Lehose, 
but having been upset the previous evening by a drunken coachman, and 
brought home with a knee severely bruised, he was obliged to forego that 
pleasure. He wrote the lady, giving the details of the accident, and ex¬ 
pressing regret that he was unable to leave his room. The lady, who was 
of a temperament generous and impulsive, replied at once, giving utter¬ 
ance to her regret, and making Bums a formal proffer of her sympathy 
and friendship. Burns was enraptured, and returned an answer after the 
following fashion;— 

“ I stretch a point, indeed, my dearest madam, when I answer your card 
on the rack of my present agony. Your friendship, madam 1 By heavens! 



24 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


I was never proud before. ... I swear solemnly (in all the terror of my 
former oath) to remember you in all the pride and warmth of friendship 
until—1 cease to be! 

“ To-morrow, and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me. 

“ Farewell! May you enjoy a better night’s repose than I am likely to 
have.” 

The correspondence, so rapturously opened, proceeded quite as raptur¬ 
ously. It was arranged that in the future Burns should sign himself Syl- 
mnder, and the lady Clarinda, Each day gave birth to its epistle. Poems 
were interchanged. Sighs were wafted from St. James s Square to the 
Potterow. Clarinda was a “gloriously amiable fine woman,” and Sylvan- 
der was her “devoted slave.” Clarinda chid Sylvander tenderly for the 
warmth of his expressions. Sylvander was thrown into despair by the 
rebuke, but protested that he was not to blame. Who could behold her 
superior charms, her fine intelligence, and not love ? who could love and 
be silent ? Clarinda had strong Calvinistic leanings, and Sylvander, who 
could not pardon these things in Ayrshire clergymen, and was accustomed 
to call them by quite other names, was “ delighted by her honest enthu¬ 
siasm for religion.” Clarinda was to be passing on a certain day through 
the square in which Sylvander lived, and promised to favor him with a nod, 
should she be so fortunate as to see him at his window; and wrote sorrow¬ 
ing, the day after, that she had been unable to discover his window. Syi 
vander was inconsolable. Not able to discover his window! He could 
almost have thrown himself over it for very vexation. His peace is spoiled 
for the day. He is sure the soul is capable of disease, for his has convulsed 
itself into an infiammatory fever, and so on. During this period of letter¬ 
writing, Burns and Mrs. M'Lehose had met several times in her own house, 
and on these occasions he had opportunities of making her aware of his 
dismal prospects. The results of his renewed intercourse with Jean on his 
return to Ayrshire were now becoming apparent; this was communicated 
to her along with other matters, and Mrs. M‘Lehose was all forgiveness- 
tempered with rebuke, and a desire for a more Calvinistic way of thinking 
on his part on religious subjects. That the affection of Burns for the lady 
was rooted in anything deeper than fancy, and a natural delight in intel¬ 
ligence and a pleasing manner, may be doubted. His Clarinda letters are 
artificial, and one suspects the rhetorician in the swelling sentences and the 
exaggerated sentiment. With regard to Mrs. M‘Lehose there can be no 
mistake. Her letters are far superior to Burns’s, being simple, natural, and 
with a pathetic cadence in some portions which has not yet lost the power 
to affect. She loved Burns, and hoped, if he would but wait till existing 
ties were broken, to be united to him. But Bums could not wait, the cor¬ 
respondence drooped, and a year saw all passion 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


25 


“ Die away, 

And fade into the light of common day 

the common day of Jean Armour, Ellisland, and the Excise. 

When Burns at this period, confined to his room by an angry limb, in 
the middle of his Clarinda correspondence, and tortured with suspicions of 
Creech’s insolvency—of which some ugly rumors had reached him—was 
made aware that Jean was about to become again a mother, and that Ler 
father had thrust her from his house in anger, he was perhaps more purely 
wretched than at any other period of his life. In his own breast there was 
a passionate tumult and remorse. Look where he would, no blue spot was 
to be discovered in the entire sky of his prospects. He had felt the sweet¬ 
ness of applause: he was now to experience the bitterness of the after¬ 
taste. He was a “lion” whose season had passed. His great friends 
seemed unwilling or unable to procure him a post. He had been torn from 
his old modes of life, and in the new order of things which surrounded 
him he could find nothing permanent, nothing that would cohere. Time 
was passing; his life was purposeless; he was doing nothing, effecting 
nothing; he was flopping in the wind like an unbraced sail. At this 
juncture he resolved to bring matters to a conclusion, after one fashion or 
another. In his letters, the old scheme of emigration to the West Indies 
turns up bitterly for a moment. Then he bethought himself of a post in the 
Excise, which had always been a dream of his, and the possibility of his 
obtaining which had been discussed by his Ayrshire friends before he be¬ 
came famous. If such a position could be secured it would be at least some¬ 
thing, something in itself, something to fall back upon should his farming 
schemes prove abortive. He accordingly wrote the Earl of Glencairn, solic¬ 
iting his patronage, but the application appears to have been followed by 
no result. Mr. Graham, of Fintry, whose acquaintance Burns had made at 
Blair, the seat of the Duke of Athole, having heard of his wish, through 
the kind offices of Mr. Alexander Wood, the surgeon who attended him, 
immediately placed his name on the list of expectant officers. Having 
arranged his Excise business so far, he left Edinburgh to have another look 
at Mr. Miller’s farms, and to come to an agreement, if possible. He took 
a friend with him on whose sagacity and business skill he could confide; 
and after a deliberate inspection of the lands, he was better satisfied than 
he had been on a former occasion, and at once made an offer to Mr. Miller 
for the farm at Ellisland, which was accepted. On his return to Edin¬ 
burgh he announced his resolution to his friend Miss Chalmers: 

“ Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, 
for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six 
miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive 
lime, etc., and Heaven be my help! for it will take a strong effort to bring 
my mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of 




26 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures—a motley host! and have liter¬ 
ally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have 
incorporated into a life-guard.” 

Burns’s business at this time in Edinburgh related to his settlement with 
Creech, which, after many delays was about to take place. In all, he 
appears to have received between £400 and £500, and out of this sum he 
advanced £180 to his brother Gilbert, who was struggling manfully at 
Mossgiel. On the 24th March, with much business on hand, he left Edin¬ 
burgh for Ayrshire, where he married Jean Armour—snapping thereby 
the chief link which bound him to the metropolis. This union, putting 
moral considerations out of the question altogether, was the most prudent 
course open to him, and it repaired the fabric of self-respect which had 
been, to some extent at least, broken down. For a time we hear nothing 
of the “wandering stabs of remorse,” and his letters breathe a quite un¬ 
usual contentedness. He had made some little self-sacrifice, and he tasted 
the happiness which always arises from the consciousness of self-sacrifice. 
Besides, he had loved the girl, perhaps loved her all through, although 
the constant light of affection had, to himself as well as to others, been 
obscured by the glare of fiercer and more transitory fires; and if so—the 
sacrifice not so great as he supposed it to be—he was plainly a gainer both 
ways. Burns was placed at this time in difiicult circumstances, and he 
simply made the best of them. He could build only with the materials 
within reach. There was nothing left but to begin life again as a farmer, 
and it behoved him to wear russet on heart as well as on limb. In the 
heyday of his Edinburgh success he foresaw the probability of his return 
to the rural shades, and to these shades he had now returned—but he re¬ 
turned with reputation, experience, an unreproving conscience, some little 
money in hand, and with solider prospects of happiness than had ever yet 
fallen to his lot. Happiness he did taste for a few months,—and then out 
of the future came the long shadows of disaster, fated not to pass away, 
but to gather deeper and darker over a grave which was dug too early, 
and yet too late. 

When Burns entered into possession of Ellisland, at Whitsunday, 1788, 
he left his wife at Mauchline till the new dwelling-house should be erected. 
In the meantime he was suflGiciently busy; he had to superintend masons 
and carpenters, as well as look after more immediate farm matters. Besides, 
in order to qualify himself for holding his Excise Commission, he had to 
give attendance at Ayr for six weeks on the duties of his new profession. 
These occupations, together with occasional visits to his wife and family, 
kept him fully occupied. Hope had sprung up in his bosom like a Jonah’s 
gourd, and while the greenness lasted he was happy enough. During his 
solitary life at Ellisland, he wrote two or three of his finest songs, each 
of them in praise of Jean, and each giving evidence that his heart was at 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


27 


rest. During this time, too, a somewhat extensive correspondence was 
kept up, and activity and hopefulness—only occasionally dashed by 
accesses of his constitutional melancholy—radiate through it all. As was 
natural, his letters relate, for the most part, to his marriage and his new 
prospects. As respects his marriage, he takes abundant care to make 
known that, acting as he had done, he had acted prudently; that he had 
secured an admirable wife, and that in his new relationship he was entirely 
satisfied. If any doubt should exist as to Burns’s satisfaction, it can arise 
only from his somewhat too frequent protestation of it. He takes care to 
inform his correspondents that he has actually married Jean, that he would 
have been a scoundrel had he declined to marry her, and that she possessed 
the sweetest temper and the handsomest figure in the country. The truth 
is, that, in the matter of matrimony, he could not very well help himself. 
He was aware that the match was far from a brilliant one, and as he really 
loved his wife, he had to argue down that feeling in his own heart; he was 
aware that his correspondents did not consider it brilliant, and he had also 
to argue down that feeling in theirs. Meanwhile, the house at Ellisland 
was getting finished. In the first week of December he brought home 
his wife, and in the pride of his heart he threw off a saucy little song, 
“I hae a wife o’ my ain,” 

which quivers through every syllable of it with a homely and assured de¬ 
light that laughs at all mischance. Mrs. Burns brought her children and a 
whole establishment of servants. The house was small, its accommodation 
was limited, and Burns sat at meals with his domestics, and on Sunday 
evenings, after the good old Scottish fashion, he duly catechised them. 
He has himself left on record that this was the happiest portion of his life. 
He had friends, with whom he maintained an intimate correspondence; he 
had a wife who loved him; his passionate and wayward heart was at rest 
in its own happiness; he could see the grain yellowing in his own fields; 
he had the Excise Commission in his pocket on which he could fall back 
if anything went wrong; and on the red scaur above the river, he could 
stride about, giving audience to incommunicable thought, while the Nith 
was hoarse with flood, and the moon was wading through clouds over¬ 
head. When should he have been happy, if not now ? 

Burns’s farming operations during the second year of his occupancy of 
Ellisland were not successful, and in the more unrestrained letters of the 
period we find him complaining of his hard fate in being obliged to make 
one guinea do the work of five. As the expense of his family was now 
rapidly increasing, he requested to be allowed to enter at once on his duties 
as officer of Excise. That in his new mode of life he would encounter un¬ 
pleasantnesses he knew, and was prepared for them; but he expected that 
Mrs. Burns would be able to manage the farm for the most part,—in any 
case his salary as Exciseman would be a welcome addition to his means. 





28 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


He was appointed on application, he entered zealously on his duties, and 
as his district extended over ten parishes, he was forced to ride about two 
hundred miles per week. This work, taken in conjunction with labor at 
Ellisland, which, constantly getting into arrear, demanded fierce exertion 
at intervals, was too much for even his iron frame. He had attacks of 
illness, and his constitutional hypochondria ruled him with a darker sceptre 
than ever. It appears evident from his letters that he meant to make his 
fight at Ellisland, and that he considered the Excise as a second line of 
defence on which he could fall back in the event of defeat. At Ellisland 
he was defeated, and on his second line of defence he fell back grimly 
enough. An Excise officer is not a popular character in country districts 
where smugglers abound; and whatever degree of odium might attach to 
his new profession. Burns was certain to feel more keenly than most. One 
can see that in his new relation his haughty spirit was ill at ease; that he 
suspected a sort of meanness in himself; and that the thought that he had 
in any way stooped or condescended was gall and wormwood. His bitter¬ 
ness on this matter escapes in various and characteristic ways. At one 
time he treats the matter with imperial disdain, declaring that he does not 
intend “ to seek honor from his profession; ” at another time in a set of 
impromptu verses he mocks at his occupation and himself, illuminating 
the whole business with a flame of spleenful mirth. But the step he had 
taken was unquestionably a prudent one, and if it miscarried, it miscarried 
from foreign causes. From every account which survives, he was an ex¬ 
cellent and zealous officer, and into his work he carried eyes which were 
at once sharp and kindly. It was not in his nature to be harsh or tyran¬ 
nical. A word revealed secrets to him, a glance let him into the bearings 
of a case ; and while he saw that the interests of Government did not 
materially suffer, his good nature and kindheartedness were always at 
hand to make matters as pleasant as possible. One or two of these Excise 
anecdotes are amongst the pleasantest remembrances we have of Burns. 
His professional prospects were on the whole far from despicable. On 
his farm he was losing money, health, and hope; but in the Excise he 
looked forward to advancement,—an Inspectorship or Supervisorship being 
regarded as within his reach. 

If Ellisland had only been profitable. Burns might have been considered 
a fortunate man. For his own wants and for those of his family the cot¬ 
tage which he had built sufficed. The scenery around him was beautiful. 
He was on good terms with the neighboring proprietors, and his reputa¬ 
tion attracted visitors from many quarters. He procured books from 
Edinburgh and from the circulating library which—with that regard for 
mental means and appliances which seems to have been a characteristic of 
his race—he had established in the vicinity. Every other day letters and 
newspapers were arriving at Ellisland, connecting him with distant places 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


29 


and events; and the stranger who dropped in upon him from London 
or Edinburgh, or even from places more remote, brought talk, ideas, 
observations on this thing and the other more or less valuable, stimulus, 
excitement,—all tending to enrich intellectual life. And during this time 
he was no mental sluggard. He worked his brain as he worked his serv¬ 
ants on the acres at Ellisland, or his horse as he rode on the scent of a 
smuggler through the Nithsdale moors. He carried on a multifarious 
correspondence, he wrote his letters carefully—only a little too carefully 
sometimes, for he is occasionally modish and over-dressed. Every other 
week he sent a packet of songs to Johnson for his Museum, which had now 
reached the third volume. He interested himself in local politics, and 
scribbled electioneering ballads. One evening, when the past—heavy 
with unshed tears—lay near his heart, he composed the strain. To Mary 
in Heaven; and in the course of one summer day, in a perfect riot and 
whirlwind of ecstasy, every faculty and power in full blossom, he dashed 
off lam O'Slianter, —immortal, unapproachable 1 If Ellisland had but 
paid. Burns might have been happy as farmer and poet,—or as Excise¬ 
man, farmer and poet,—for the characters were by no means incompatible. 

As but for his Excise salary Burns m<ust have succumbed under farming 
difficulties, he was now anxious to be quit of Ellisland, and to confine 
himself entirely to his official duties; and it so happened that Mr. Miller 
was willing to release him of the portion of the lease which was yet to 
run, preparatory to a final sale of that part of the lands. The Ellisland 
crops were sold, and the sale was made the occasion of a drunken orgie. 
On the 1st September, Burns writes to Mr. Thomas Sloan : 

“Isold my crop on this day se’en-night, and sold it very well. 4- 
guinea an acre on an average above value. But such a scene of drunken¬ 
ness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was over about 
thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought 
it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No 
fighting indeed, but the folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, 
until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them that they could not 
stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I was no farther 
over than you used to see me.” 

In November Ellisland became the property of Mr. Morine, and Burns 
immediately sold his farm stock and implements,—relinquishing forever 
the plough-tail, at which he so often boasted that he had an independ¬ 
ence,—and removed with his wife and children to a small house in the 
Wee Vennel of Dumfries. On his removal he was appointed to an Excise 
division, which improved his salary. His income was now £70 per 
annum. 

It is at Dumfries that Bums’s story flrst becomes really tragical. He 
had divorced himself from country scenery and the on-goings of rural life, 



30 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


which, up till now, formed an appropriate background for our ideas of 
him. Instead of the knowes and meadows of Mossgiel and Ellisland, with 
their lovely sunrises and twilights, we have to connect him with the 
streets, the gossip, and the dissipation of a third-rate Scottish town. He 
was no longer a farmer—he was a simple gauger, hoping to obtain a super- 
visorship. Proud as was his spirit, he was dependent on great friends; 
and he condescended, on various occasions, to write epistles in prose and 
verse which fawned on a patron’s hand. Natural inspiration and pictur¬ 
esqueness were taken out of his life. He turned down no more daisies, 
the horned moon hung no longer in the window-pane of the ale-house in 
which he drank; the composition of theatrical prologues engaged his 
attention rather than the composition of poems of rustic life. He was 
never rich, but in Dumfries his poverty for the first time wears an aspect 
of painfulness. For the first time we hear of monetary difficulties, of 
obligations which he cannot conveniently meet, of debt. It was here, too, 
that certain weaknesses, which had lately grov.m upon him, attracted 
public notice. In Dumfries, as in Edinburgh at that time, there was a 
good deal of tavern-life, and much hard drinking at dinner and supper 
parties, and the like. Burns was famous,—he had lived in dukes’ houses, 
he corresponded with celebrated men, he could talk brilliantly, he had wit 
for every call as other men had spare silver he could repeat his last poem 
or epigram,—and as a consequence his society was in great request. It 
was something to have dined or supped in the company of Burns,—if one 
was not the rose, it was at least something to have been near the rose,—and 
his host was proud of him, as he was proud of his haunch of venison, his 
claret, his silver epergne. Burns’s good things circulated with the wine; 
his wit gave a new relish to the fruit, and kindled an unwonted splendor 
in the brains of his listeners. The strangers, passing through Dumfries, 
were naturally anxious to see the poet whose reputation had travelled so 
far. They invited him to the inns in which they were living. Burns con¬ 
sented, frequently the revel was loud and late, and when he rose,—after 
the sun sometimes,—he paid his share of the la wing with “a slice of his 
constitution.” In his younger days he had been subjected to public rebuk*e 
by the Rev. Mr. Auld; but since his marriage he seems to have been ir¬ 
reproachable in the matter of conjugal fidelity. During, however, an un¬ 
fortunate absence of his wife in Ayrshire he contracted a discreditable 
liaison, which resulted in the birth of a daughter. Mrs. Burns seems 
neither to have reproached nor complained; she adopted the child, and 
brought it up in the same cradle with her own infant. If for his fault he 
had been subjected to domestic annoyance, he might have taken refuge in 
pride, and haughtily repelled reproaches; but his wife’s forgiveness allowed 
him to brood—and with what bitterness we can guess—over his miscon¬ 
duct. Doubtless the evil in his career in Dumfries has been exaggerated. 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


31 


Burns’s position was full of peril,—he was subjected to temptations which 
did not come in the way of ordinary men; and if he drank hard, it was 
in an age when hard drinking was fashionable. If he sinned in this respect, 
he sinned in company with English prime ministers, Scotch Lords of Session, 
grave dignitaries of the Church in both countries, and with thousands of 
ordinary blockheads who went to their graves in the odor of sanctity, and 
whose epitaphs are a catalogue of all the virtues. Bums was a man set 
apart; he was observed, he was talked about; and if he erred, it was like 
erring in the market-place. In any other inhabitant of Dumfries, mis¬ 
demeanors such as Burns's would hardly have provoked remark; what 
would have been unnoticed on the hodden gray of the farmer became a 
stain on the singing robe of the poet. That Burns should have led an un¬ 
worthy life is to be deplored, but the truth is—and herein lies explanation, 
palliation perhaps—that in Dumfries he was somewhat a-weary of the sun. 
Not seldom he was desperate and at bay. He was neither in harmony with 
himself nor with the world. He had enjoyed one burst of brilliant success, 
and in the light of that success his life before and after looked darker than 
it actually was. The hope deferred of a supervisorship made his heart 
sick. He had succeeded as a poet, but in everything else failure had 
dogged his steps , and out of that poetical success no permanent benefit 
had resulted, or seemed now in his need likely to result. In the east were 
the colors of the dawn, but the sun would not arise. His letters at this 
time breathe an almost uniform mood of exasperation and misery, and it is 
hard for a miserable man to be a good one. He is tempted to make strange 
alliances, and to pay a high price for forgetfulness. And over Burns’s 
head at this time was suspended one other black cloud, which, although 
It only burst in part, made the remainder of his life darker with its shadow. 

Chief amongst Burns’s friends during the early portion of his residence 
at Dumfries were Mr. and Mrs. Riddel. They were in good circumstances, 
possessing a small estate in the neighborhood of the town, and Burns was 
frequently their guest. Mrs. Riddel was young and pretty, and distin¬ 
guished by literary taste and accomplishment. She wrote verses which 
Burns praised, and he introduced her to his friend Smellie, the naturalist, 
who was enchanted with her vivacity and talent. But this pleasant re¬ 
lationship was destined to be interrupted. On the occasion of a dinner¬ 
party at Woodley Park, the residence of Mr. Riddel, when wine flowed 
much too freely. Burns—in some not quite explained manner—grievously 
offended his hostess. On the following morning he apologized in prose 
and verse, threw the onus of his rudeness on Mr. Riddel’s wine,—which was 
the next thing to blaming Mr. Riddel himself,—and in every way expressed 
regret for his conduct, and abhorrence of himself. These apologies do not 
seem to have been accepted, and for a time the friends ceased to meet. 
Bums was hurt and angry, and he made the lady he was accustomed to 



32 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


address in adoring verses and high-flown epistles the subject of cruel and 
unmanly lampoons. The estrangement was, of course, noised abroad, 
and the people were inclined to side with the fashionable lady rather than 
with the Jacobinical exciseman. For a time at least, Dumfries regarded 
Burns with a lowering and suspicious eye, one reason of which may be 
found in his quarrel with the Riddels and its cause, and another in the 
political principles which he professed to hold, and to which he gave im¬ 
prudent expression. 

His immediate ancestors had perilled something in the cause of the 
Stuarts, and Burns, in his early days, was wont to wear a sentimental 
Jacobitism,—for ornament’s sake, like a ring on the finger, or a sprig of 
heather in the bonnet. This Jacobitism was fed by his sentiment and his 
poetry. It grew out of the House of Stuart, as flowers grow out of the 
walls of ruins. But while he held the past in reverence, and respected aris¬ 
tocracy as an outcome of that past, a something around which tradition 
and ballad could gather, there was always a fierce democratic impulse in 
his mind, which raged at times like the ocean tide against the Bullers of 
Buchan. This democratic feeling, like his other feeling of Jacobitism, 
rested on no solid foundation. He had a strong feeling that genius and 
worth are always poor, that baseness and chicanery are always prosperous. 
He cojxsidered that the good things of this life were secured by the rascals 
more or less. The truth is, his Jacobitism sprang from his imagination, 
his Radicalism from his discontent ; the one the offspring of the best por¬ 
tion of his nature, the other the offspring of the worst. Radicalism was 
originally born of hunger ; and Burns, while denouncing the rules of his 
country, was simply crying out unde his own proper sore. He passionately 
carried particulars into generals. He was sick, and so was the W'hole body 
politic. He needed reform, so, of course, did the whole world, and it was 
more agreeable to begin with the world in the first instance. He was im¬ 
prudent in the expression of his political opinions, and was continually 
doing himself injury thereby. He had written, as we have seen, treason¬ 
able verses on the inn window at Stirling; and although on a subsequent 
visit he dashed out the pane, he could not by that means destroy the 
copies which were in circulation. The writing of the verses referred to 
was imprudent enough, but the expression of his Radicalism at Dumfries 
—which was a transient mood, not a fixed principle with him—was more 
imprudent still. In the one case he was a private individual, anxious to 
enter the Excise; in the other, he had entered the Excise, was actually a 
Government officer, and in receipt of a Government salary Besides, too, 
the times were troublous: there was seditious feeling in the country, 
France had become a volcano in active eruption, and European business 
was carried on in its portentous light. It became known that Burns 
looked with favor on the revolutionary party across the Channel, that he 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


33 


read newspapers wMch were opposed to the Government, and, as a conse¬ 
quence, by the well-to-do inhabitants of Dumfries he was regarded with 
suspicion. This suspicion was, of course, wretched enough, but Burns 
need not have gone out of his way to incur it. He knew perfectly well 
that his Radicalism was based on no serious conviction, that it grew out 
of personal discontent, and that the discontent was the result of wounded 
pride, and the consciousness that he had not shaped his life aright. 
Besides all this, he seems to have lost self-command, he was constantly 
getting into scrapes from which there could be no honorable extrication. 
He burned his fingers, and he did not dread the fire. To the Subscription 
Library in Dumfries he presented^ amongst other volumes, a copy of De 
holme on the British Constitution, and inscribed on the back of the por¬ 
trait of the author, “Mr. Burns presents this book to the Library, and 
begs they will take it as a creed of British liberty—until they find a 
better. R. B.” And the next morning he came to the bedside of the gen¬ 
tleman who had the volume in custody, imploring to see De holme, as he 
feared he had written something in it that might bring him into trouble. 
We hear of him at a private dinner-party, when the health of Pitt was 
proposed, giving “The health of George Washington—a better man,” 
and of his being sulky that his toast was not received. He had already 
sent a present of guns to the French Convention, with which our pros¬ 
pect of war was at this time becoming imminent; and at a later period 
we find him quarrelling with an officer on the subject of another toast, 
and writing apologies to the effect, firstly, that when the offence was com¬ 
mitted he was drunk; and secondly, that he could not fight a duel, 
because he had the welfare of others to care for. When the board of 
Excise ordered some inquiries to be made regarding his political conduct, 
he wrote Mr. Graham of Fintry, declaring that ‘ ‘ To the British Constitu¬ 
tion, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most devoutly 
attached.” He was in a state of chronic exasperation at himself, at the 
rich people of his acquaintance and of his immediate neighborhood, and 
at the world generally; and his exasperation was continually blazing out 
in sarcasm and invective. Curiously enough, too, when one thinks of it, 
-during all this bitter time, he was writing songs for Mr. Thomson, who 
had opened a correspondence with him. He was busy with Clitoris and 
Phillis, while thrones were shaking, and the son of Saint Louis knelt on 
the scaffold, and Marie Antoinette during her trial was beating out with 
weary fingers a piano tune on the bench before her. Every other week 
up from Dumfries to Edinburgh came by the fly a packet of songs for the 
new publication. On one occasion came the stem war-ode, Scots wha hoe 
toi' Wallace hied, which Mr. Thomson thought susceptible of improvement. 
But Bums was inexorable; he liked his ode, and as it was it should 
remain. It has been said, that by the more respectable circles in Dum- 




34 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE 


fries Burns was regarded with suspicion, if not with positive dislike. 
Some evidence of this will be found in the anecdote related by Mr. Lock¬ 
hart. “ Mr. M’Culloch,” we are informed by that biographer, “was sel¬ 
dom more grieved than when, riding into Dumfries one fine summer 
evening to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the 
shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was 
gay with successive groups of ladies and gentlemen, all drawn together 
for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to 
recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who on his 
proposing to him to cross the street, said, ‘ Nay, nay, my young friend, 
that’s all over now ’; and quoted after a pause, some verses of Lady 
Grizel Baillie’s pathetic ballad ; 

• His bonnet stood ance fu’ fair on his brow, 

His auld ane looked better than mony ane’s new ; 

But now he let’s wear ony gate it will hing, 

And casts himsel’ dowie upon the corn-bing. 

‘ Oh, were we young as we ance hae been, 

We sud hae been galloping down on yon green. 

And linking it ower the lily-white lea— 

And werena my heart light 1 wad die.' 

Burns then turned the converation, and took his young friend home with 
him till the time for the ball arrived.” 

This—with the exception of the actual close—was the darkest period in 
Burns’s life. In a short time the horizon cleared a little. The quarrel 
with Mrs. Riddel was healed, and in a short time books and poems were 
exchanged between them as of yore. He appears also to have had again 
some hope of obtaining a supervisorship—the mirage that haunted his clos¬ 
ing years. Meanwhile, political feeling had become less bitter; and in 
1795, he exhibited his friendliness to the institutions of the country by 
entering himself one of the corps of volunteers which was raised in Dum¬ 
fries, and by composing the spirited patriotic song, Does haughty Oaul 
inmsion threat ? This song became at once popular; and it showed the 
nation that the heart of the writer was sound at the core, that he hated 
anarchy and tyranny alike, and wished to steer a prudent middle course. 
Better days were dawning; but by this time the hardships of his youth, 
his constant anxieties, his hoping against hope, and his continual passion¬ 
ate stress and tumult of soul, began to tell on a frame that was originally 
powerful. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in the beginning of the year, we 
have, under his own hand, the first warning of failing strength. “ What 
a transient business is life,” he writes. “Very lately I was a boy; but 
t’other day I was a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre 
and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame.” In spite of 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


35 


breaking health, he attended his Excise duties, and the packets of songs 
were sent regularly from Dumfries to Edinburgh. In the songs there was 
no symptom of ache or pain; in these his natural vigor was in no wise 
abated. The dew still hung, diamond-like, upon the thorn. Love was 
still lord of all. On one occasion he went to a party at the Globe Tavern, 
where he waited late, and on his way home, heavy with liquor, he fell 
asleep in the open air. The result, in his weakened state of body, was 
disastrous. He was attacked by rheumatic fever, his appetite began to 
fail, his black eyes lost their lustre, his voice became tremulous and hol¬ 
low. His friends hoped that, if he could endure the cold spring months, 
the summer warmth would revive him; but summer came, and brought 
no recovery. He was now laid aside from his official work. During his 
illness he was attended by Miss Jessie Lewars, a sister of his friend Lew- 
ars,—“a fellow of uncommon merit; indeed, by far the cleverest fellow 
I have met in this part of the world,”—and her kindness the dying poet 
repaid by the only thing he was rich enough to give—a song of immortal 
sweetness. His letters at this time are full of his disease, his gloomy pros¬ 
pects, his straitened circumstances. In July he went to Brow, a sea¬ 
bathing village on the Solway, where Mrs. Riddel was then residing, in 
weak health, and there the friends—for all past bitternesses were now for¬ 
gotten—had an interview. “Well, Madam, have you any commands for 
the other world ? ” was Burns’s greeting. He talked of his approaching 
decease calmly, like one who had grown so familiar with the idea that it 
had lost all its terror His residence on the Solway was not productive of 
benefit; he was beyond all aid from sunshine and the saline breeze. On 
the 7th July, he wrote to Mr. Cunningham, urging him to use his influ¬ 
ence with the Commissioners of Excise to grant him his full salary. “ If 
they do not grant it me,” he concludes, “I must lay my account with an 
exit truly en poete ; if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger.” 
On the 10th July, he wrote his brother Gilbert; and Mrs. Dunlop, who 
had become unaccountably silent, two days after. On this same 12th July, 
he addressed the following letter to his cousin:— 

“My dear Cousin, —When you offered me money assistance, little did 
I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I 
owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has com¬ 
menced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body 
into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return 
of post, with ten pounds? Oh, James! did you know the pride of my 
heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas I I am not used to beg. The 
worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. You know, and my 
physician assured me that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease 
—guess, then, my horror since this business began. If I had it settled, I 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


36 

would be, I think, quite well, in a manner. How shall 1 use the language 
to you ?—oh, do not disappoint me! but strong necessity’s curst command. 

“ Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post—save me from 
the horrors of a jail. 

“My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. 1 do not 
know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look over 
it again. Farewell. R, B ” 

On the same day he addressed Mr. Thomson 

“After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to im¬ 
plore you for five pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a haberdasher, to whom 
I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced 
a process, and will infallibly put me in jail. Do, for God’s sake, send me 
that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness; but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this 
gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to 
furnish you with five pounds’ worth of the neatest song-genius you have 
seen. I tried my hand on RotMmurcMe this morning. The measure is so 
difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they 
are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me! ” 

This was Burns’s last working day. He wrote his song in the morning, 
Fairest Maid on Devon Banks, and the two letters afterwards—to both of 
which answers were promptly returned. He soon after left the Solway 
and returned to Dumfries, where his wife was daily expected to be con¬ 
fined. He came home in a small spring cart, and when he alighted he was 
unable to stand. The hand of death was visibly upon him. His children 
were sent to the house of Mr. Lewars: Jessie was sedulous in her atten¬ 
tions. On the 21st, he sank into delirium; his children were brought to 
see him for the last time; and with an execration on the legal agent who 
had threatened him, the troubled spirit passed. Those who came to see 
him as he lay in his last sleep were touched and affected. Mighty is the 
hallowing of death to all,—to him more than to most. As he lay stretched, 
his dark locks already streaked with unnatural gray, all unworthiness fell 
away from him—every stain of passion and debauch, every ignoble word, 
every ebullition of scorn and pride—and left pure nobleness. Farmer no 
longer, exciseman no longer, subject no longer to criticism, to misrepre¬ 
sentation, to the malevolence of mean natures and evil tongues, he lay there 
the great poet of his country, dead too early for himself and for it. He 
had passed from the judgments of Dumfries, and made his appeal to Time. 

Of Burns, the man and poet, what is there left to be said ? During his 
lifetime he was regarded as a phenomenon; and now, when he has been 
seventy years in his grave he is a phenomenon still. He came up from 






BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


37 


Ayrshire with all the sense and shrewdness of its peasantry, the passion of 
its lovers, the piety of its circles of family worship, the wild mirth of its 
kirns and Halloweens. Of all the great men of the North Country, his 
was incomparably the fullest soul. What fun he had, what melancholy, 
what pity, what anger, what passion, what homely sagacity, what sensi¬ 
tiveness! Of everything he was brimful and overflowing. It is difficult 
to carry a full cup and not to spill it. He had his errors, but they arose 
out of his splendid and perilous richness. As a man he was full of natural 
goodness, but he was unreticent even among poets. We know the best 
and the worst of him; and he has himself frankly told us that best and 
that worst. He had to fight with adverse circumstances, he died before 
he had run his race, and his fame—greater than that of any other poet of 
his country—rests upon poems written swiftly, as men write their letters, 
and on songs which came to him naturally as its carol comes to the black¬ 
bird. 

Of all poets Burns was, perhaps, the most directly inspired. His poems 
did not grow—like stalactites—by the slow process of accretion; like 
Adam, they had no childhood—they awoke complete. Burns produced 
all his great effects by single strokes. In his best things there is an im¬ 
petus, a hurry, which gives one the idea of boundless resource. To him 
a song was the occupation of a morning; his poetic epistles drive along in 
a fiery sleet of words and images: his Tam O' SJianter written in a 
day—since Bruce fought Bannockburn, the best single day’s work done in 
Scotland. Burns was never taken by surprise; he was ready for all calls 
and emergencies. He had not only—like Addison—a thousand-pound note 
at home, but he had—to carry out the image—plenty of loose intellectual 
coin in his pocket. A richer man—with plenty of money in his purse, and 
able to get the money out of his purse when swift occasion required—Na¬ 
ture has seldom sent into the world. 

Born and bred as he was in the country, we find in Burns the finest pic¬ 
tures of rural life. We smell continually the newly-turned earth, the haw¬ 
thorn blossoms, the breath of kine. His shepherds and shepherdesses are 
not those who pipe and make love in Arcady and on Sevres china—they 
actually work, receive wages, attend markets, hear sermons, go sweet- 
hearting, and, at times, before the congregation endure rebuke. The world 
he depicts is a real world, and the men and women are also real. Burns 
had to sweat in the eye of Phoebus, and about all he writes there is an out- 
of-doors feeling. Although conversant with sunrises and sunsets, the pro¬ 
cesses of vegetation, and all the shows and forms of nature, he seldom or 
never describes these things for their own sake; they are always kept in 
subordination to the central human interest. Burns cared little for the 
natural picturesque in itself; the moral picturesque touched him more 
nearly. An old soldier in tattered scarlet interested him more than an old 



38 


BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


ruin; he preferred a gnarled character to a gnarled tree. The ridges of 
Arran haunt Ayrshire,—Burns must daily have seen them from his door 
at Mossgiel,—and yet, to this most striking object in his range of vision, 
there is not a'single allusion in his letters and poems. If Wordsworth had 
been placed in the same environment, how he would have made his suns 
rise or set on Arran! After all, it is usually the town-poets—men like 
Hunt and Keats—who go philandering after nature, who are enraptured 
by the graceful curvature of ferns and the colors of mosses and lichens. 
Burns had an exquisite delight in nature, especially in her more somber 
and gloomy aspects; but he took a deeper interest in man, and, as a con¬ 
sequence, the chief interest of his poems is of a moral kind. We value 
them not so much for their color, their harmony, their curious felicities of 
expression, as for the gleams of sagacity, the insight into character, the 
strong homely sense, and those wonderful short sentences scattered every 
where. Of those short lines and sentences, now sly, now caustic, now 
broadly humorous, now purely didactic, no writings, if Shakespeare’s be 
excepted, have a greater abundance. They circulate everywhere like cur¬ 
rent coin; they have passed like iron into the blood of our common speech. 
Of Burns’s conversation in Edinburgh we have little recorded that is es¬ 
pecially characteristic—and for this we blame not Burns, but his reporters. 
The best thing—indeed, the only true and deep thing—is the simple state¬ 
ment which struck Dugald Stewart so much when the pair were standing 
on the Braid hills, looking out on the fair morning world. Beneath were 
cottages, early sparrows doubtless noisy in the thatch, pillars of blue 
smoke, telling of preparation of breakfast for laborers afield, curling in the 
calm air. Burns took in the whole landscape, and declared that, in his 
view, the worthiest object it contained was the cluster of smoking cots, 
knowing as he did, what worth, what affection, what pious contentment 
and happiness, nestled within them. This really is a gleam into the man’s 
inmost soul. Poetry, to him, lay in the cottage rather than in the tree 
that overshadowed it, or the stream that sparkled past it. In one of his 
poems he lays down the doctrine in express terms:— 

“To make a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife. 

That’s the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life.” 

The poetry of a man so intensely humane is certain to come home to the 
bosoms and businesses of all other men—powerfully to the happy, more 
powerfully to the miserable, who are ever in the majority. To the 
wretched out of the Bible, there is no such solace as the poetry of Burns. 
Flis genius comes to their hovels, their poor bread wetted with tears, as 
Howard came to the strong places of pestilence—irradiating, consoling; 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 


39 


like the hearing of soft tones, like the touches of tender hands. And then 
his large friendliness flows out in every direction. The “mouse” is his 
“poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal.” He t)ities the “silly 
sheep,” and the “ chittering wing” of the bird perched on the frozen spray. 
The farmer speaks to his old mare “Maggie” as he would to a comrade, 
who had shared with him his struggles, toils, and triumphs. The poetry 
of Burns flows into a wintry world, like a tepid gulf-stream—mitigating 
harsh climates, breathing genial days, carrying with it spring-time and the 
cuckoo’s note. 

Of his humor again—which is merely his love laughing and playing 
antics in very extravagance of its joy—what can be said, except that it is 
the freshest, most original, most delightful in the world ? What a riot of 
fun in Jam O'SJianter ; what strange co-mixture of mirth and awfulness in 
Death and Dr. Hornbook ; what extravaganza in the Address to a Haggis! 
To Burns’s eye the world was dark enough, usually ; but, on the gala days 
and carnivals of his spirit. Mirth rules the hour, ragged Poverty dances 
all the lighter for his empty pockets. Death himself grins as he is poked 
in the lean ribs. And if, as is said, from the sweetest wine you can ex¬ 
tract the sourest vinegar, one can fancy into what deadly satire this love 
will conceal itself, when it becomes hate. Burns hates his foe—be it man 
or doctrine—as intensely as he loves his mistress. Holy Willie's Prayer is a 
satirical crucifixion—slow, lingering, inexorable. He hated Hypocrisy, he 
tore its holy robe, and for the outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him 
while he lived, nor has it yet learned to forgive him. 

If we applaud the Roman Emperor who found Rome brick and left it 
marble, what shall we say of the man who found the songs of his country 
indelicate and left them pure—who made wholesome the air which the 
spirit and the affections breathe ? And Burns did this. He drove im¬ 
modesty from love, and coarseness from humor. And not only did he 
purify existing Scottish Song ; he added to it all that it has of best and 
rarest. Since his day, no countryman of his, whatever may be his mood, 
need be visited by a sense of solitariness, or ache with a pent-up feeling. 
If he is glad, he will find a song as merry as himself ; if sad, he will find 
one that will sigh with his own woe. In Burns’s Songs, love finds an ex¬ 
quisite companionship ; independence a backer and second ; conviviality, 
a roaring table, and the best fellows round it ; patriotism, a deeper love of 
country, and a gayer scorn of death than even its own. And in so adding 
to, and purifying Scottish Song, Burns has conferred the greatest benefit 
on his countrymen that it is in the power of a poet to confer. 



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CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 


OF 

BURNS’S LIFE AND WORKS. 


ALLOWAY. 

1759 . , 

January 25.—Robert Burns born at Alloway, parish of Ayr, in a clay- 
built cottage, the work of his father’s own hands. His father, William 
Burnes (so the family name was always written until changed by the poet), 
was a native of Kincardineshire, born November 11, 1721. His mother, 
Agnes Brown, born March 17, 1732, was daughter of a farmer in Garrick, 
Ayrshire. The poet’s parents were married December 15, 1757. William 
Burnes was then a gardener and farm-overseer. 

1765 — (^TAT. Six). 

Sent to a school at Alloway Mill, kept by one Campbell, who was suc¬ 
ceeded in May by John Murdoch, a young teacher of uncommon merit, 
engaged by William Burnes and four of his neighbors, who boarded him 
alternately at their houses, and guaranteed him a small salary. Two 
advantages were thus possessed by the poet—an excellent father and an 
excellent teacher. 


MOUNT OLIPHANT. 

1766 — (Seven). 

William Burne%removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant, two miles dis¬ 
tant. His sons still attended Alloway school. The books used were a 
spelling-book, the New Testament, the BibUy Mason's Collection of Prose and 
Verse, and Fisher's English Grammar. 

1768 — (Nine). 

Murdoch gave up Alloway school. Visiting the Burnes family before 
his departure, he took with him, as a present, the play of Titus Andronicus. 
He read part of the play aloud, but the horrors of the scene shocked and 

• 41 



42 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


distressed the children, and Robert threatened to burn the book if it was 
left. Instead of it, Murdoch gave them a comedy, the Sc/iool for Love 
(translated from the French) and an English Orammar. He had previously 
lent Robert a Life of Hannibal. “ The earliest composition that I recollect 
taking any pleasure in,” says the poet, “was the Vision of Mir za, and a 
hymn of Addison’s beginning, How are Thy servants blest, 0 Lord! 1 
particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish 
ears,— 

‘For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave I ’ ” 

He had found these in Mason’s Collection. The latent seeds of poetry 
were further cultivated in his mind by an old woman living in the family, 
Betty Davidson, who had a great store of tales, songs, ghost-stories, and 
legendary lore. 

1770—(Eleven). 

By the time he was ten or eleven years of age he was an excellent En¬ 
glish scholar, “a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles.” After the 
departure of Murdoch, William Burnes was the only instructor of his 
sons and other children. He taught them arithmetic, and procured for 
their use Salmon's Geographical Grammar, Derham's Physics and Astro- 
Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation. These gave the 
boys some idea of Geography, Astronomy, and Natural History. He 
had also Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of 
Original Sin, a volume of English History (reigns of James I. and 
Charles I.). The blacksmith lent the common meincdil Life of Sir William 
Wallace (which was read with Scottish fervor and enthusiasm), and a 
maternal uncle supplied a Collection of Letters, by the wits of Queen Anne’s 
reign, which inspired Robert with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing. 

177 2—(Thirteen). 

To improve their penmanship, William Burnes sent his sons, week about, 
during the summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or 
three miles distant. This year Murdoch was appointed teacher of English 
In Ayr school, and he renewed his acquaintance with the Burnes family, 
sending them Pope's Works and “ some other poetry.” 

177 3—(Fourteen). 

Robert boarded three weeks with Murdoch at Ayr in order to revise his 
English Grammar. He acquired also a smattering of French, and on re¬ 
turning home he took with him a French Dictionary French Gramma/r, 
and a copy of Telemaque. He attempted Latin, but soon abandoned it. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


43 


1774— (Fifteen. ) 

His knowledge of French introduced him to some respectable families in 
Ayr (Dr. Malcolm’s and others). A lady lent him the Spectator, Pope’s 
Homer, and several other books. In this year began with him love and 
poetry. His partner in the harvest-field was a “ bewitching creature ” a 
year younger than himself. Nelly Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith, 
who sang sweetly, and on her he afterwards wrote his first song and first 
effort at rhyme, 0, once I loved a honnie lass. 

1775— (Sixteen). 

About this time Robert was the principal laborer on the farm. From 
the unproductiveness of the soil, the loss of cattle, and other causes, Wil¬ 
liam Burnes had got into pecuniary difficulties, and the threatening let¬ 
ters of the factor (the landlord being dead) used to set the distressed family 
all in tears. The character of the factor is drawn in the Tale of Twa 
Dogs. The hard labor, poor living, and sorrow of this period formed the 
chief cause of the poet’s subsequent fits of melancholy, frequent head¬ 
aches, and palpitation of tlie heart. 

177 6—(Seventeen). 

Spent his seventeenth summer (so in poet’s MS. British Museum; Dr. 
Currie altered the date to nineteenth) on a smuggling coast in Ayrshire, at 
Kirkoswald, on purpose to learn mensuration, surveying, etc. He made 
good prepress, though mixing somewhat in the dissipation of the place, 
which had then a flourishing contraband trade. Met the second of his 
poetical heroines, Peggy Thomson, on whom he afterwards wrote his fine 
song. Now westlin winds and slaughVring guns. The charms of this maiden 
“ overset his trigonometry and set him off at a tangent from the sphere of 
his studies.” On his return from Kirkoswald (“in my seventeenth year,” 
he writes) he attended a dancing school to “give his manners a brush.” 
His father had an antipathy to these meetings, and his going “in absolute 
defiance of his father’s command ” ( sic in orig.) was an “instanceof rebel¬ 
lion ” which he conceived brought on him the paternal resentment and 
even dislike. Gilbert Burns dissents altogether from this conclusion: the 
poet’s extreme sensibility and regret for his one act of disobedience led him 
unconsciously to exaggerate the circumstances of the case. At Kirkos- 
wald he had enlarged his reading by the addition of Ticonison's and Shen- 
stone’s Works, and among the other books to which he had access at this 
period, besides those mentioned above, were some plays of Shakespeare, 
Allan Ramsay’s Works, Hervey’s Meditations, and a Select Collection of Eng¬ 
lish Songs (“The Lark,” 2 vols.). This last work was, he says, his vadc 
mecum ; he pored over it driving his cart or walking to labor, and care- 

18—Burns—C 




44 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


fully noted the true, tender, or sublime from affectation and fustian. He 
composed this year two stanzas, I dream'd l lay where flowers were spring 
ing. 

LOCHLEA. 

1777—(Eighteen), 

William Burnes and family remove to a larger farm at Lochlea, parish 
of Tarbolton. Take possession at Whitsunday. Affairs for a time look 
brighter, and all work diligently, Robert and Gilbert have £7 per annum 
each as wages from their father, and they also take land from him for the 
purpose of raising flax on their own account. “Though, when young, 
the poet was bashful and awkward in his intercourse with women, as he 
approached manhood his attachment to their society became very strong, 
and he was constantly the victim of some fair enslaver.” {Gilbert Burns.) 
He was in the secret, he says, of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton. 

177 8—(N INETEEN). 

“I was,” he says, “about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the out¬ 
lines of a tragedy.” The whole had escaped his memory, except a frag¬ 
ment of twenty lines; All devil as I am, etc. 

17 80—(Twenty-one). 

The “ Bachelors’ Club,” established at Tarbolton by Robert and Gilbert 
Burns, and five other young men. Meetings were held once a month, 
and questions debated. The sum expended by each member was not to 
exceed threepence. 

17 81—(Twenty-two). 

David Sillar admitted a member of the Bachelors’ Club. He describes 
Burns: “I recollect hearing his neighbors observe he had a great deal to 
say for himself, and that they suspected his principles (his religious prin¬ 
ciples). He wore the only tied hair in the parish, and in the church his 
plaid, which was of a particular color, 1 think filleniot, he wrapped in a 
particular manner round his shoulders. Between sermons we often took 
a walk in the fields; in these walks I have frequently been struck by his 
facility in addressing the fair sex, and it was generally a death-blow to our 
conversation, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some 
book he always carried and read when not otherwise employed. It was 
likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, in 
the time of a so wen supper, he was so intent on reading,—I think Tris¬ 
tram Shandy,— his spoon falling out of his hand made him exclaim, in 
a tone scarcely imitable, ‘ Alas, poor YorickI ’ ” The poet had now added 
to his collection of books Mackenzie’s Man of Feeling (which he said he 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


45 


prized next to the Bible) and Man of the W<yrld, Sterne's Woi'ks, and Mac- 
pherson’s Ossian. He would appear also to have had the poetical works 
of Young. Among the fair ones whose society he courted was a superior 
young woman, bearing the unpoetical name of Ellison Begbie. She was 
the daughter of a small farmer at Galston, but was servant with a family 
on the banks of the Cessnock. On her he wrote a “song of similes,” be¬ 
ginning On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, and the earliest of his printed 
correspondence is addressed to Ellison. His letters are grave, sensible 
epistles, written with remarkable purity and correctness of language. At 
this time poesy was, he says, “a darling walk for his mind.” The oldest 
of his printed pieces were Winter, a Dirge, the Death of Poor Mailie, John 
Barleycorn, and the three songs It teas upon a Lammas night. Now westlin 
winds and slaught'ring guns, and Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows. We 
may add to these 0 Tibbie I hae seen the day and My father was a farmer. 
His exquisite lyric, 0 Mary, at thy window be, was also, he says, one of 
his juvenile works. 


1782—(Twenty-thkee). 

Ellison Begbie refuses his hand. She was about to leave her situation, 
and he expected himself to “ remove a little further off.” He went to the 
town of Irvine. “ My twenty-third year,” he says, “was tome an im¬ 
portant era. Partly through whim, and partly that I wished to set about 
doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighboring town to 
learn his trade, and carry on the business of manufacturing and retailing 
flax. This turned out a sadly unlucky affair. My partner was a scoundrel 
of the first water, who made money by the mystery of thieving, and to 
finish the whole, while we were giving a welcoming carousal to the New 
Year, our shop, by the drunken carelessness of my partner’s wife, took 
fire, and was burned to ashes; and left me, like a true poet, not worth a 
sixpence.’ * In Irvine his reading was only increased, he says, by two 
volumas of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand, Count Fathom, which gave him 
some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in 
print, he had given up, but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he 
‘ strung anew his lyre with emulating vigor.” He also formed a friend¬ 
ship foi a young fellow, “a very noble character,” Richard Brown, and 
with others of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been 
used to, “ the consequence of which was,” he says, “that soon after I re¬ 
sumed the plough I wrote the Poet's Welcome ” (to his illegitimate child). 
Bat this was not till the summer of 1784. Before leaving Lochlea he be¬ 
came a Freemason. 

* from orig. in Museum. Burns wrote an interesting and affecting letter to.his 
father from Irvine. Dr. Currie dates it 1781, which we think is an error. The poet’s 
state ment Is corroborated by his brother’s narrative, and the stone chimney of the 



46 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


MOSSGIEL. 

17 84—(Twenty-FIVE). 

February 13. —William Burnes died at Lochlea in his sixty-fourth year, 
his affairs in utter ruin. His sons and two grown-up daughters ranked as 
creditors of their father for arrears of wages, and raised a little money to 
stock another farm. This new farm was that of Mossgiel, parish of Mauch- 
line, which had been sub-let to them by Gavin Hamilton, writer (or attor¬ 
ney) in Mauchline. They entered on the farm in March: “ Come, go to, 
I will be wise,” resolved the poet, but bad seed and a late harvest deprived 
them of half their expected crop. Poetry was henceforth to be the only 
successful vocation of Robert Burns. To this year may be assigned the 
Epistle to John Rankine (a strain of rich humor, but indelicate), and some 
minor pieces. In April or May he commenced his acquaintance with 
“ Bonnie Jean ’’—Jean Armour—an event which colored all his future life, 
imparting to it its brightest lights and its darkest shadows. 

1785—(Twenty-six). 

In January the Epistle i*? completed: Death and Dr. Hornbook writ- 
ten about February. Epistles to J. Lapraik, April 1, 21, and September 13, 
Epistle to W. Simpson in May. T?ie Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie: this 
satire was the first of his poetic offspring that saw the light (excepting 
some of his songs), and it was received by a certain description of the 
clergy, as well as laity, with a “roar of applause.” Burns had now taken 
his side with the “New Light,” or rationalistic section of the church, then 
in violent antagonism to the “ Auld Light,” or evangelistic party, which 
comprised the great bulk of the lower and middling classes. To this year 
belong The Jolly Beggars, Halloween, The Cotter's Saturday Night, Man was 
made to Mourn, Address to the Deil, To a Mouse, A Winter Night, Holy 
Willie's Prayer, and The Holy Fair (early MS. in British Museum), Epistle 
to James Smith, etc. 


1786—(Twenty-seven). 

In rapid succession were produced Scotch Drink, The Author's Earnest Cry 
and Prayer, The Twa Dogs, The Ordination, Address to the Unco Quid, To a 
Mountain Daisy, Epistle to a Young Friend, A Bard's Epitaph, The Lament, 
Despondency, etc. Such a body of original poetry, written within about 

room occupied by the poet is inscribed, evidently by his own hand, “ R. B. 1783.” Ho 
consoled himself for his loss after this fashion 

” O, why the deuce should I repine, 

And be an ill foreboder ? 

I’m twenty-three, and five feet nine, 

I’lJ go and be a sodger,” 



UriRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


47 


twelve months,—poetry so natural, forcible, and picturesque, so quaint, 
sarcastic, humorous, and tender—had unquestionably not appeared since 
Shakespeare. Misfortunes, however, were gathering round the poet. 
The farm had proved a failure, and the connection with Jean Armour 
brought grief and shame. He gave her a written acknowledgment of mar¬ 
riage, but at the urgent entreaty of her father she consented that this doc¬ 
ument should be destroyed. The poet was frantic with distress and in¬ 
dignation. He resolved on quitting the country, engaged to go out to 
Jamaica as book-keeper on an estate, and, to raise money for his passage, 
arranged to publish his poems. Subscription papers were issued in April. 
In the meantime, in bitter resentment of the perfidy, as he esteemed it, of 
the unfortunate Jean Armour, he renewed his intilnacy with a former love, 
Mary Campbell, or “Highland Mary,” who had been a servant in the 
family of Gavin Hamilton, and was now dairy-maid at Coilsfield. He pro¬ 
posed marriage to Mary Campbell, was accepted, and Mary left her service 
and went to her parents in Argyleshire, preliminary to her union with the 
poet. They parted on the banks of the Ayr, on Sunday, May 14, ex¬ 
changing Bibles and vowing eternal fidelity. No more is heard of Mary 
until after her death, which took place in October of this year. The poems 
were published in August, an edition of 600 copies, and were received with 
enthusiastic applause. The poet cleared about £20 by the volume, took a 
passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde (nothing is said of 
Mary accompanying him), and was preparing to embark, when a letter 
from Dr. Blacklock, offering encouragement for a second edition, roused 
his poetic ambition, and led him to try his fortune in Edinburgh. Before 
starting he made the acquaintance of Mrs, Dunlop of Dunlop, the most 
valued and one of the most accomplished of his correspondents. 

EDINBURGH. 

November 28, 1786,—Burns reaches the Scottish capital, and instantly 
becomes the lion of the season. He is courted and caressed by the witty, 
the fashionable, and the learned—by Dugald Stewart, Harry Erskine, Hugh 
Blair, Adam Ferguson, Dr. Robertson, Lord Monboddo, Dr. Gregory, 
Fraser Tytler, Lord Glencairn, Lord Eglinton, Patrick Miller (the ingenious 
laird of Dalswinton), the fascinating Jane, Duchess of Gordon, Miss Burnet, 
etc. Henry Mackenzie, the “Man of Feeling,” writes a critique on the 
poems in the Lounger—t\\Q members of the Caledonian Hunt subscribe for 
a hundred copies of the new edition,—and the poet is in a fair way, as he 
says, of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan. 

1787 —(Twenty-eight). 

Burns applies for and obtains permission to erect a tombstone in Canon- 



48 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


gate Churchyard over the remains of Fergusson the poet. In April ap¬ 
pears the second edition of the Poems, consisting of 3,000 copies, with a 
list of subscribers prefixed, and a portrait of the poet. In this edition 
appeared Death and Dr. Hornbook, the Ordination, and Address to the 
Unco Quid, which were excluded from the first edition, and several new 
pieees, the best of which are the Brigs of Ayr and Tam Samson's Elegy. 
On the 5th of May the poet sets off on a tour with a young friend, Robert 
Ainslie, in order to visit the most interesting scenes in the south of Scot¬ 
land. Crossing the Tweed over Coldstream bridge. Burns knelt down on 
the English side and poured forth, uncovered, and with strong emotion, 
the prayer for Scotland contained in the two last stanzas of the Cotter’s 
Saturday Night. June 4, he was made an honorary burgess of the town of 
Dumfries, after which he proceeded to Ayrshire, and arrived atMauchline 
on the 9th of June. “ It will easily be conceived,” says Dr. Currie, “ with 
what pleasure and pride he was received by his mother, his brothers, and 
sisters. He had left them poor and comparatively friendless; he returned 
to them high in public estimation, and easy in his circumstances.” At 
this time the poet renewed his intimacy with Jean Armour. Towards the 
end of the month he made a short Highland tour, in which he visited Loch 
Lomond and Dumbarton, and returning to Mauchline, we find him (July 25) 
presiding as Deputy Grand Master of the Tarbolton Mason Lodge, and 
admitting Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Alexander of Ballochmyle, 
and others, as honorary members of the Lodge. On the 25th of August 
the poet set off from Edinburgh on a northern tour with William Nicol 
of the High School. They visited Bannockburn, spent two days at Blair 
with the Duke of Athole and family, proceeded as far as Inverness, then 
by way of Elgin, Fochabers (dining with the Duke and Duchess of Gordon), 
on to Aberdeen, Stonehaven, and Montrose, where he met his relatives the 
Burneses. Arrived at Edinburgh on the 16th of September, In De¬ 
cember made the acquaintance of Clarinda, or Mrs, M’Lehose, with 
whom he kept up a passionate correspondence for about three months. 
Overset by a drunken coachman, and sent home with a severely bruised 
knee, which confined him for several weeks. Mr. A. Wood, surgeon 
“ lang Sandy Wood,” applies to Mr. Graham of Fintry, Commissioner 
of Excise, and gets Burns’s name enrolled among the number of expectant 
Excise officers. During all this winter the poet zealously assists Mr. 
James Johnson in his publication, the Scots Musical Museum. 

1788— (Twenty-nine). 

Left Edinburgh for Dumfries to inspect Mr. Miller’s lands at Dalswinton. 
Stopped by the way at Mossgiel, February 23. Poor Jean Armour, who 
had again loved not wisely, but too well, was living apart, separated from 
her parents, and supported by Burns. He visited her the day before his 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


49 


departure for Dumfries (apparently February 24), and it is painful to find 
him writing thus to Clarinda: “I, this morning as I came home, called 
for a certain woman. I am disgusted with her. I cannot endure her. I, 
while my heart smote me for the profanity, tried to compare her with my 
Clarinda; ’twas setting the expiring glimmer of a farthing taper beside 
the cloudless glory of the meridian sun. Here was tasteless insipidity, 
vulgarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there, polished good sense. 
Heaven-born genius, and the most generous, the most delicate, the most 
tender passion. I have done with her, and she with me.”^ In less than 
two months they were married! In this, as in the Highland Mary episode, 
Burns’s mobility, or “excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions ,”2 
seems something marvelous, and more akin to the French than the Scotch 
character. Returned to Edinburgh in March, and on the 13th took a lease 
of the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith. On the 19th settled 
with Creech, the profits from the Edinburgh edition, and copyright being 
about £500, of which the poet gave £180 to his brother Gilbert, as a loan, 
to enable him to continue (with the family) at Mossgiel. In the latter end 
of April Burns was privately married to Jean Armour, and shortly after¬ 
wards wrote on her his two charming songs. Of a' the airts the wind can 
blow, and 0, were I on Parnassus hill! 

ELLISLAND. 

In June the poet went to reside on his farm, his wife remaining at 
Mauchline until a new house should be built at Ellisland. Formed the 
acquaintance of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a gentleman of literary and 
antiquarian tastes, who resided at Friars, Carse, within a mile of Ellisland. 
On 28th June wrote Verses in Friars Carse Hermitage. August 5, the 
poet at Mauchline made public acknowledgment of his marriage before the 
Kirk Session, at the same time giving “ a guinea note for behoof of the 
poor.” In December conducted Mrs. Burns to the banks of the Nith. / 
hae a wife o' my ain ! 

1789— (Thirty). 

Visited Edinburgh in February, and received about £50 more of copy¬ 
right money from Creech. August 18, son born to the poet, named Francis 
Wallace. About the same time received appointment to the Excise. 
October 16, the great bacchanalian contest for the Whistle took place at 
Friars Carse in presence of the poet. On the 20th of October (as calculated, 
and indeed proved by Mr. Chambers) the sublime affecting lyric. To Mary 
in Eearen, was composed. Met Grose the antiquary at Friars Carse, and 

* From the original, published in Banffshire Journal. 

' So defined by Byron, who was himself a victim to this “ unhappy attribute.” See 
“ Don Juan,” canto xvi, 97. 



50 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


afterwards wrote the humorous poem On Captain Grose's Peregrinations. 
In December was written the election ballad The Five Carlines. 

1790—(Thirty-one), 

January 11.—Writes to Gilbert that his farm is a ruinous affair. On the 
14th, addressing his friend Mr. Dunbar, W.S., relative to his Excise ap¬ 
pointment, he says: “ I found it a very convenient business to have £50 per 
annum; nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it I 
was led to fear.” The duties were hard; he had to ride at least 200 miles 
every week, but he still contributed largely to the Scots Musical Museum^ 
wrote the elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson (one of the most exquisite 
of the poet’s productions), and in autumn produced Tam O’Shanter, by 
universal assent the crowning glory and masterpiece of its author. 

1791 -(Thirty-two). 

In February wrote Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, and Lament fat' James 
Earl of Olencairn. In March had his right arm broken by the fall of his 
horse, and was for some weeks disabled from writing. In this month also 
occurred an event which probably caused deeper pain than the broken 
arm. First, as Mr. Chambers says, “ we have a poor girl lost to the rep¬ 
utable world;” (this was “Anna with the gowden locks,” niece to the 
hostess of the Globe Tavern;) “ next we have Burns seeking an asylum 
for a helpless infant at his brother’s; then a magnanimous wife interposing 
with the almost romantically generous offer to become herself its nurse 
and guardian.” i April 9, a third son born to the poet, and named William 
Nicol. At the close of the month the poet sold his crop at Ellisland, “and 
sold it well.” Declined to attend the crowning of Thomson's bust at 
Ednam, but wrote verses for the occasion. In November made a short 
visit—his last—to Edinburgh, and shortly afterwards wrote his inimitable 
farewell to Clarinda, Aefond kiss and then we sever. The fourth stanza of 
this song Sir Walter Scott said contained “ the essence of a thousand love 
tales.” 

DUMFRIES. 

At Martinmas (Nov. 11), the poet having disposed of his stock and other 
effects at Ellisland, and surrendered the lease of the farm to Mr. Miller the 
proprietor, removed with his family to the town of Dumfries. He occupied 
for a year and a half three rooms of a second floor on the north side of 
Bank Street (then called the Wee Vennel). On taking up his residence in 
the town, Burns was well received by the higher class of inhabitants and 

1 Mrs. Burns was much attached to the child, who remained with her till she was 
seventeen years of age, when she married a soldier, John Thomson of the Stirling 
Militia. She is still living, and strongly resembles her father. Poor Anna the mother 
felt deeply the disgrace; she, however, made a decent marriage in Leith, but died 
comparatively young, without any family by her husband. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


5i 


the ueigliboriQg gentry. One of the most accomplished of the latter was 
Mrs. Walter Riddle (ii^ Maria Woodley), then aged only about eighteen. 
This lady, with her husband, a brother of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, 
lived on a small estate about four miles from Dumfries, which in com'pli- 
ment to the lady they called Woodley Park (now Goldielea). 

1792— (Thirty-three). 

February 27.—Burns behaved gallantly in seizing and boarding a smug¬ 
gling brig in the Solway. The vessel, with her arms and stores, was sold 
by auction in Dumfries, and Burns purchased four carronades or small 
guns, for which he paid £3. These he sent, with a letter, to the French 
Convention, but they were retained at Dover by the Custom-house authori¬ 
ties. This circumstance is supposed to have drawn on the poet the notice 
of his jealous superiors. He warmly sympathized with the French people 
in their struggle against despotism, and the Board of Excise ordered an 
inquiry into the poet’s political conduct, though it is doubtful whether 
any reprimand was ever given him. In September Mr. George Thomson, 
Edinburgh, commenced his publication of national songs and melodies, and 
Burns cordially lent assistance to the undertaking, but disclaimed all idea 
or acceptance of pecuniary remuneration. On the 14th of November he 
transmitted to Thomson the song of Highland Mary, and next month one of 
the most arch and humorous of all his ditties, Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 

1793— (Thirty-four). 

The poet continues his invaluable and disinterested labors for Mr. 
Thomson’s publication. In July he makes an excursion into Gallow^ay 
with his friend Mr. Syme, stamp distributor, and according to that gentle¬ 
man (though Burns’s own statement on the subject is different), he com¬ 
posed his national song, Scots wha hoe, in the midst of a thunder-storm on 
the wilds of Kenmure. The song was sent to Thomson in September, 
along with one no less popular, Auld Lang Syne. At Whitsuntide the poet 
removed from the “ Wee Veunel” to a better house (rent £8 per annum) 
in the Mill-hole Brae (now Burns Street), and in this house he lived till his 
death. His widow continued to occupy it till her death, March 26, 1834. 

1794 — (Thirty-five). 

At a dinner-party at Woodley Park, on one occasion the poet, like most 
of the guests, having exceeded in wine, was guilty of some act of rude¬ 
ness to the accomplished hostess which she and her friends resented very 
warmly. A rupture took place, and for nearly a twelvemonth there was 
no intercourse between the parties. During this interval Burns wrote 
several lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, wholly unworthy of him as a man or as 
a poet. April 4, Captain Riddel of Glenriddel died unreconciled to Burns, 



52 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


yet the latter honored his memory with a sonnet. August 12, another son 
born to the poet, and named James Glencairn. During this autumn and 
winter Burns wrote some of his finest songs, inspired by the charms of Jane 
Lorimer, the ‘ ‘ Chloris ” of many a lyric. In November he composed his 
lively songs. Contented wV little and cantie wi' mair, which he intended as 
a picture of his own mind ; but it is only, as Mr. Chambers says, the 
picture of one aspect of his mind. Mr. Perry of the Morning Chronicle 
wishes to engage Burns as a contributor to his paper, but the “truly gener¬ 
ous offer ” is declined, lest connection with the Whig journal should injure 
his prospects in the Excise. For a short time he acted as supervisor, and 
thought that his political sins were forgiven. 

1795— (Thirty-six). 

In January the poet composed his manly and independent song For a' 
that and a' tha't. His intercourse with Maria Riddel is renewed, and sho 
sends him occasionally a book, or a copy of verses, or a ticket for the 
theater. He never relaxes his genial labors for the musical works of 
Johnson and Thomson, and he writes a series of election ballads in favor 
of the Whig candidate, Mr. Heron. He joins the Dumfriesshire corps of 
Volunteers, enrolled in the month of March, and writes his loyal and pa¬ 
triotic song. Does haughty Caul invasion threat ? also his fine national strain, 
Their groves of sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, and one of the best of 
his ballads. Last May a hraw wooer. The poet’s health, however, gives 
way, and premature age has set in. 

1796—(Thirty-seven). 

The decline of the poet is accelerated by an accidental circumstance. 
One night in January he sat late in the Globe Tavern. There was deep 
snow on the ground, and in going home he sank down, overpowered by 
drowsiness and the liquor he had taken, and slept for some hours in the 
open air. From the cold caught on this occasion he never wholly re¬ 
covered. He still, however, continued his song-writing, and one of the 
most beautiful and most touching of his lyrics was also one of his latest. 
This was the song beginning Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, written on 
Jessy Lewars, a maiden of eighteen, sister to a brother exciseman, who 
proved a “ ministering angel ” to the poet in his last illness. In May, 
another election called forth another ballad, Wha will buy my troggin ? And 
about the middle of June we find the poet writing despondingly to his old 
friend Johnson, and requesting a copy of the Scots Musical Museum to 
present to a young lady. This was no doubt the copy presented to Jessy 
Lewars, June 26, inscribed with the verses, Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
As a last effort for health, Burns went on the 4th of July to Brow, a sea- 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


53 


bathing hamlet on the Solway. There he was visited by Maria Riddel, 
who thought “the stamp of death was imprinted on his features.” He 
was convinced himself that his illness would prove fatal, and some time 
before^his he had said to his wife, “ Don’t be afraid • I’ll be more respect¬ 
ed a hundred years after 1 am dead, than 1 am at present.” Mrs. Riddel 
saw the poet again on the 5th of July, when they parted to meet no more. 
On the 7th he wrote to his friend Alexander Cunningham to move the 
Commissoners of Excise to continue his full salary of £50 instead of re 
ducing it, as was the rule in the case of excisemen off duty, to £35. Mr. 
Findlater, his superior officer, says he had no doubt this would have been 
done had the poet lived. On the 10th Burns wrote to his brother as to his 
hopeless condition, his debts, and his despair; and on the same day he ad¬ 
dressed a request to his father-in-law, stern old James Armour, that he 
would write to Mrs, Armour, then in Fife, to come to the assistance of her 
daughter, the poet’s wife, during the time of her confinement. His 
thoughts turned also to his friend Mrs. Dunlop, who had unaccountably 
been silent for some time. He recalled her interesting correspondence. 
“With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal 1 The remembrance 
adds yet one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ” Close 
on this dark hour of anguish came a lawyer’s letter urging payment—and 
DO doubt hinting at the serious consequences of non-payment—of a haber¬ 
dasher’s account. This legal missive served to conjure up before the dis¬ 
tracted poet the image of a jail with all its horrors, and on the 12th he 
wrote two letters—one to his cousin in Montrose begging an advance of 
£10, and one to Mr. George Thomson imploring £5. “ Forgive, forgive 

me ! ” He left the sea-side on the 18th, weak and feverish, but was able 
the same day, on arriving at his house in Dumfries, to address a second 
note to James Armour, reiterating the wish expressed six days before, but 
without eliciting any reply: “Do, for Heaven’s sake, send Mrs. Armour 
here immediately.” From this period he was closely confined to bed (ac¬ 
cording to the statement of his widow), and was scarcely himself" for 
half an hour together. He w^as aware of this infirmity, and told his wife 
that she was to touch him and remind him when he was going wrong. 
One day he got out of his bed, and his wife found him sitting in a corner 
of the room with the bed-clothes about him; she got assistance, and he 
suffered himself to be gently led back to bed. The day before he died he 
called very quickly and with a hale voice, “ Gilbert! Gilbert I ” On the 
morning of the 21st, at daybreak, death was obviously near at hand, and 
the children were sent for. They had been removed to the house of Jessy 
Lewars and her brother, in order that the poet’s dwelling might be kept 
quiet, and they were now summoned back that they might have a last look 
of their illustrious father in life. He was insensible, his mind lost in de¬ 
lirium, and, according to his eldest son, his last words were, “ That d-cl 






54 


CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 


.rascal, Mattiiew Penn !”—an execration against the legal agent who had 
written the dunning letter. And so ended this sad and stormy life-drama, 
and the poet passed, as Mr Carlyle has said, “not softly but speedily into 
that still country where the hail-storms and fire-showers do not reach, and 
the heaviest-laden wayfarer at length lays down his load.” On the even¬ 
ing of Sunday, the 24th of July, the poet’s remains were removed from 
his house to the Town Hail, and next day were interred with military 
honors. 



POEMS 


THE TWA DOGS.» 

A TALE. 

"Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle, 

That bears the name o’ Auld King Coil, 

Upon a bonie day in June, 

When wearing thro’ the afternoon, 

Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 

Forgather’d ance upon a time. 

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, 

W^as keepit for his Honor’s pleasure- 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 

Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; 

But whalpit some place far abroad, 

Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar, 

Show’d him the gentleman and scholar; 

But tho’ he was o’ high degree. 

The fient a pride—nae pride had he; 

But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 

Ev’n wi’ a tinkler-gipsey’s messin. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 

Nae tawted tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, 

But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him, 

An’ stroan’t on stanes and hillocks wi’ him. 

The tither was a ploughman’s collie, 

A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 

An’ in his freaks had Luath* ca’d him. 

After some dog in hlighland sang. 

Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke. 

As ever lap a sheugh or dike. 

His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face. 

Ay gat him friends in ilka place; 

• The tale of the “ T-wa Dogs,” Gilbert Burns writes, was composed after the resolution 
of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had a dog which he called Luath, that was 
a great favorite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the 
night before my father’s death, Robert said to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow on his old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind 
to introduce something into the book, under the title of Stanzas to the Memory of a 
Quadruped Friend ; but this plan was given up for the poem as it now stands. Caesar 
was merely the creature of the poet’s imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favorite Luath. 

2Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal. R. B. 


55 






56 


THE TWA DOGS. 


His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black, 

His gawcie tail, wi’ upward curl. 

Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they w^ere fain o’ ither, 

An’ unco pack an’ thick thegither, 

Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit, 
Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, 

An’ worry’d ither in diversion, 

Until wi’ daftin weary grown, 

Upon a knowe they sat them down, 

An’ there began a lang digression 
About the lords o’ the creation. 


CiESAR. 

I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, 

What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; 

An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, 

What way poor bodies liv’d ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 

His coals, his kain, an’ a’ his stents. 

He rises when he likes himsel; 

His flunkies answer at the bell. 

He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse: 

He draws a bonie, silken purse 
As laug’s my tail, whare thro’ the steeks, 

The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e’en, it’s naught but toiling, 

At baking, roasting, frying, boiling, 

An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin, 

Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan, 

Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie, 
That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. 

Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 

Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 

Better than ony tenant man 
His Honor has in a’ the Ian: 

An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in 
I own it’s past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’t eneugh; 
A cotter how kin in a sheugh, 

Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 

Baring a quarry, and siclike, 

Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans. 

An’ naught but his han’ darg, to keep 
Them right an’ tight in thack an’ rape. 

An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters, 

Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, 





THE TWA DOGS. 


57 


Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never kend yet. 
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; 

An’ buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 

Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C^SAR. 

But then to see how ye’re negleckit, 

How huff’d, an cuff’d, an’ disrespeckiti 
Lord, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle. 

They gang as saucy by poor folk, 

As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day, 

An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae, 

Poor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash. 

How they maun thole a factor’s snash * 
He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear. 
He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble 
An’ hear it a’, an fear an’ tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 

But surely ooor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think: 
Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink. 

They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight. 

The view o’t gies them little fright. 

Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided, 
They’re ay in less or mair provided; 

An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment, 

A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o’ their lives. 

Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a’ their fire-side. 

An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 

They lay aside their private cares. 

To mind the Kirk and State affairs; 

They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests, 

Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts. 

Or tell what new taxation’s comin, 

An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. 


* Bums alludes to the factor in the autobiographical sketch communicated to Dr. 
John Moore, 

“ My father’s generous master died: the farm proved a ruinous bargain; and, to 
clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor who sat for the picture 
I have drawn of one in my tale of the ‘ Twa Dogs ’ . . my indignation yet boils at 
the recollection of the scoundrel factor’s insolent threatening letters, which used 
to set us all in tears.” 




58 


THE TWA DOGS. 


As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, 

They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 

When rural life, o’ ev’ry station. 

Unite in common recreation; 

Love blinks. Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth 
Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 

They bar the door on frosty winds; 

The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, 

An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam; 

The luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill. 

Are handed round wi’ right guid will; 

The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 

The young anes ranting thro’ the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barket wi’ theni. 

Still its owre true that ye hae said. 

Sic game is now owre aften play’d. 

There’s monie a creditable stock 
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, 

Are riven out baith root an’ branch. 

Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favor wi’ some gentle Master, 

Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin. 

For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— 


C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 

For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 
An’ saying aye or no's they bid him. 

At operas an’ plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading- 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft. 

To Hague or Calais taks a waft. 

To make a tour, an’ tak a whirl, 

To learn bon ton an’ see the work. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father’s auld entails; 

Or by Madrid he taks the rout. 

To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt; 

Or down Italian vista startles. 
Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: 
Then houses drumly German water. 

To mak himsel look fair and fatter, 

An’ deal the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! for her destruction! 
Wi’ dissipation, feud, an’ faction 1 





THE TWA DOGS. 


59 


LUATH. 

Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ? 

Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports. 

It wad for ev’ry ane be better, 

The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter! 

For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breaking o’ their timmer, 

Or speaking lightly o’ their limmer. 

Or shootin o’ a hare or moor-cock. 

The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Csesar, 

Sure great folk’s life’s a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, 
The vera thought o’t need na fear them. 


C^SAR. 

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em. 

It’s true, they need na starve or sweat. 

Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat; 
They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes. 

But human bodies are sic fools. 

For a’ their colleges and schools. 

That when nae real ills perplex them. 

They mak enow themselves to vex them; 

An’ ay the less they hae to sturt them. 

In like proportion, less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh. 

His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; 

A co.untry girl at her wheel. 

Her dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel: 

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 

Wi’ ev’n down want o’ wark are curst. 

They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy; 

Tho’ deil haet ails them, yet uneasy: 

Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; 

Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless; 

An’ ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, 
Their galloping thro’ public places. 

There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, 

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party-matches, 

Then sowther a in deep debauches. 

Ae night, they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 



6o 


SCOTCH DRINK. 


The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 

As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; 

But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, 
They’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither, 
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 

Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks. 

Pore ower the devil’s pictur'd beuks; 

Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard. 

An' cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard. 

There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; 
But this is Gentry’s life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o’ sight. 

An’ darker gloamin brought the night. 

The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone. 

The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan, 

When up they gat, an’ shook their lugs, 
Rejoic’d they were na men but dogs, 

An’ each took aff his several way 
Resolv’d to meet some ither day. 


SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gie him strong drink, until he wink. 

That's sinking in despair ; 

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid. 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 

There let him house, an' deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o 'er. 

Till he forgets his loves or debts. 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon’s Proverbs, xxxi. 6. 

Let other Poets raise a fracas 

’Bout vines, an’ wines, an’ drunken Bacchus, 

An’ crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An’ grate our lug, 

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mali us. 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro’ wimplin worms thou jink. 

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink. 

In glorious faem, 

Inspire me, till I lisp an’ wink, 

To sing thy name! 


Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 

An’ Aits set up their awnie horn, 

An’ Pease an’ Beans at e'en or morn. 
Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou King o’ grain 1 





SCOTCH DRINK. 


6l 


Oq thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 

In souple scones, the wale o’ food! 

Or tumblin in the boiling flood 

Wi’ kail an’ beef; 

But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood, 
There thou shines chief. 


Food fills the wame, an’ keeps us livin; 

Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin, 

When heavy-dragg’d wi’ pine an’ grievin; 

But oil’d by thee, 

The wheels o’ life gae down-hill, scrievin, 
Wi’ rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o’ doited Lear. 

Thou cheers the heart o’ drooping Care; 

Thou strings the nerves o’ Labor sair, 

At’s weary toil: 

Thou even brightens dark Despair 
Wi’ gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 

Wi’ Gentles thou erects thy head; 

Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need. 

The poor man’s wine, 

His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o’ public haunts: 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 

Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts, 

By thee inspir’d. 

When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir’d. 

That merry night we get the corn in! 

* O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! 

Or reekin on a New-Year mornin 
In cog or bicker, 

An’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in, 

An’ gusty sucker! 


When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
An’ ploughmen gather wi’ their graith, 
O rare! to see thee fizz an’ freath 

r th’ lugget caup I 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 
At ev’ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel; 

The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, 



62 


SCOTCH DRINK. 


Brings hard owre hip, wi’ sturdy wheel, 
The strong forehammer. 
Till block an’ studdie ring an’ reel 

Wi’ dinsome clamor. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 

How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 
Wae worth the name! 
Nae Howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea, 

An’ just as wud as wud can be. 

How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel! ■ 

It’s aye the cheapest Lawyer’s fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason! 

But monie daily weet their weason 
Wi’ liquors nice. 

An’ hardly, in a winter’s season. 

E’er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an’ brash! ' 

Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,' 
O’ half his days; 

An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 

Poor plackless devils like mysel' 

It sets you ill, 

Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 

May gravels round his blather wrench, 

An’ gouts torment him, inch by inch, 

Wha twists his gruntie wi’ a glunch 
O’ sour disdain. 

Out owre a glass o’ Whisky punch 
Wi’ honest men! 

0 Whisky! soul o' plays an’ pranks! 
Accept a Bardie’s gratefu' thanks! 

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses! 

Thou comes-they rattle i’ their ranks 

At ither’s a—s l 



THE author’s earnest CRY AND PRAYER. 63 


Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! 

Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! 

Now colic-grips, an’ barkin boast, 

May kill us a’; 

For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast 
Is ta'en awa 1 

Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise, 

Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize! 
Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice 1 
There, seize the blinkers! 
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor damn’d drinkers. 

Fortune! if thou’ll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an’ Whisky gill, 

An’ rowth o’ rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak’ a’ the rest, 

An' deal’t about as thy blind skill 
Directs thee best. 


THE AUTHOR’S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER.^ 

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND HONORABLE THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 


Dearest of Distillation ! last and best— 

- How art thou lost! - 

Parody on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an'Squires, 

Wha represent our brughs an' shires. 

An' doucely manage our attairs 
In Parliament, 

To you a simple Bardie’s prayers 
Are humbly sent 

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse; 

Your Honors’ heart wi’ grief ’twad pierce, 

To see her sitten on her a— 

Low i' the dust, 

An' scriechin out prosaic verse. 

An’ like to brust! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 

Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction. 

E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction 
On Aqua vita?; 

An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An’ move their pity. 

• This was wrote before the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of Session, 1786; foi 
which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks. R. B. 




64 


THE AUTHOR’S EARNEST 


Stand forth, an’ tel) yon Premier Youth, 

Tlie honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, 

His servants humble; 

The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble! 

Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? 

Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! 

Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom 

Wi’ them wha grant ’em: 

If honestly they canna come. 

Far better want ’em. 

In gath’rin votes you were na slack; 

Now stand as tightly by your tack; 

Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, 

An’ hum an’ haw; 

But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack 
Before theiu a’. 

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; 

Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle; 

An’ damn’d Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin a Stell, 

Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel 
Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her, 

An’ cheek-for chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join. 

Picking her pouch as bare as Winter 
Of a’ kind coin. 

Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, 

But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot. 

To see his poor auld Mither’s pot 

Thus dung in staves, 

An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat 
By gallows knaves ? 

Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, 

Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight! 

But could I like Montgomeries ^ fight. 

Or gab like Boswell,* 

There’s some sark-necks 1 wad draw tight, 

An’ tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honors, can ye see’t, 

The kind, auld, can tie Carlin greet, 

LT of e” Hotoune primarily to Hugh Montgomerie of Coilsfield, twelfti 

* James Boswell of Auchinleck, Johnson’s biographer. 




CRY AND PRAYER. 


65 


Aq’ no get warmly to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it ? 
An’ tell them, wi’ a patriot-heat, 

Ye winna bear it! 

Some 0’ you nicely ken the laws, 

To round the period an’ pause. 

An’ with rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues; 
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s 

Auld Scotland’s wrangs. 

Dempster,1 a true blue Scot I’se warran; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerrau,^ 
An’ that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o’ Graham . ® 
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarran, 
Dundas ^ his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 

True Campbells, Frederick an’ Hay; ^ 

An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie; 

An’ monie ithers. 

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle. 

To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 

Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 
Ye’ll see’t or lang, 

She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, 
Anither sang. 

This while she’s been in crankous mood. 
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; 

(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play’d her that pliskie!) 
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An’ Lord, if ance they pit her till’t. 

Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, 

An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt. 

She’ll tak the streets, 

An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r th’ first she meets! 


•George Dempster, Esq., of Dunnichen. 

•Sir Adam Fergusson of Kilkerran, Bart. 

* The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. 

* The Right Hon. Henry Dundas. Treasurer of the Navy, and M P for the city of 

Lord T^rederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyle, and Hay Campbell, 
Lord Advocate of Scotland. 



66 


THE author’s earnest 


For God sake, Sirs! then speak her fair, 

An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, 

An’ to the muckle house repair, 

Wi’ instant speed, 

An’ strive, wi’ a your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, 

May taunt you wi’ his jeers an' mocks; 

But gie him’t het, ray hearty cocks ! 

E’en cowe the cadie! 

An’ send him to his dicing-box 

An’ sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s ^ 

I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 

An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s* 

Nine times a-week, 

If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 

I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 

He need na fear their foul reproach 
Nor erudition. 

Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; 

She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; 

An’ if she promise auld or young 
To tak their part, 

Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, 

She’ll no desert. 

An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 

May still your Mither’s heart sapport ye; 

Then, though a Minister grow dorty, 

An’ kick your place. 

Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honors a’ your days, 

Wi’ sowps o’ kail an’ brats o’ claise, 

In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie’s! 

Your humble Bardie sings an’ prays 

While Rab his name is, 

* TheEarl of Chatham, Pitt’s father, was the second son of Robert Pitt of Boconnock, 
In the county of Cornwall. 

* A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies 
politics over a glass of guid old Scotch drink. R. B. Nanse was surprised at her 
house and name being thus dragged before the public. She declared that Burns had 
never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in all his life. 





CRY AND PRAYER. 


67 


FOSTSCRIP'r. 

Let half-starv’d slaves, in warmer skies. 

See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; 

Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies. 

But blythe an’ frisky. 

She eyes her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak afl their Whisky. 

What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms. 

While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms! 
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms. 
The scented groves. 

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; 

They downa bide the stink 0’ powther; 

Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither 
To Stan’ or rin. 

Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throwther, 
To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 

Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 

Say, such is royal George’s will. 

An’ there’s the foe. 

He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; 
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; 

Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him; 

An’ when he fa’s. 

His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him 
In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 

An’ raise a philosophic reek. 

An’ physically causes seek. 

In clime an’ season; 

But tell me Whisky’s name in Greek, 

I’ll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! 

Tho’ whyles ye moistify your leather. 

Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather. 

Ye tine your dam; 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither! 

Tak aft your dram! 


18—Burns—D 



68 


THE HOLY FAIR. 


THE HOLY FAIR. 


A robe of seeming truth and trust 
Hid craft Observation ; 

And secret hung, with poison'd crust. 

The dirk of Defamation ; 

A mask that like the gorget shoiv'd. 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 

And for a mantle large and broad. 

He ivrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-li*modb. 


Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature’s face is fair, 

I walked forth to view the corn. 

An’ snuff the caller air. 

The risin’ sun, owre Galston muirs, 

Wi’ glorious light was glintin; 

The hares were hirpliu down the furrs, 
The lav’rocks they were chantin 

Fu’ sweet that day. 


As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay. 

Three Hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin up the way. 

Twa had manteeles o’ dolefu’ blaclt, 
But aue wi’ lyart lining; 

The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 
Was in the fashion shining 

Fu’ gay that day. 


The twa appear’d like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an’ claes; 

Their visage wither’d, lang an’ thin. 
An’ saur as ony slaes: 

The third cam up, hap-step-an’-lowp, 
As light as ony lambie. 

An’ wi’ a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e’er she saw me, 

Fu’ kind that day. 


Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth 1, “ Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 

I’m sure I’ve seen that bonie face. 

But yet I canna name ye.” 

Quo’ she, an’ laughin’ as she spak, 

An’ taks me by the ban’s. 

“Y'e: for my sake, hae gi’en the feck 
Of a’ the ten comman's 

A screed some day. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 


69 


My name is Fim—your cronie dear, 
The nearest friend ye hae; 

An’ this is Superstition here, 

An’ that’s Hypocrisy. 

I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin . 

Gin ye’ll go there, yon runkl’d pair. 
We will get famous laughin 

At them this day.’* 


Quoth I, “ With a’ my heart, I’ll do’t; 

I’ll get my Sunday’s sark on. 

An’ meet you on the holy spot; 

Faith, we’se hae fine remarkin!” 

Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time. 

An’ soon I made me ready; 

For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi’ monie a wearie bodie, 

In droves that day. 

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith 
Gaed hoddin by their cotters, 

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 
Are springin owre the gutters. 

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an’ scarlets glitter; 

Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang. 
An’ farls, bak’d wi’ butter, 

Fu’ crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence, 

A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws. 

An’ we maun draw our tippence. 

Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev’ry side they’re gath’rin, 

Some carryin dails, some chairs an’ stools. 
An’ some are busy bleth’rin 

Right loud that day. 


Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs, 

An’ screen our countra gentry; 

There, racer Jess,^ an’ twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 

Here sits a raw o’ tittlin jades, 

Wi’ heaving breast an’ bare neck. 

An’ there, a batch o’ wabster lads. 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

* Racer Jess was a half-witted daughter of Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedes* 
trian, and died at Mauchline in 1813. 




70 


THE HOLY FAIR. 


Here, some are thiukin on their sins, 

An’ some upo’ their claes; 

Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins, 
Anither sighs an’ prays; 

On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi’ screw’d up, grace proud faces; 

On that, a set o’ chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

O happy is that man an’ blest! 

JSae wonder that it pride him! 

Wha’s ain dear lass, that he likes best, 
Comes clinkin down beside him! 

Wi’ arm repos’d on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him; 

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 
An’s loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o’er 
Is silent expectation; 

For Aloodie speels the holy door, 

Wi’ tidings o’ damnation, 

Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

’Mang sons o’ God present him. 

The vera sight o’ Hoodie’s face, 

To’s ain het hame had sent him 

Wi’ fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 
Wi' rattlin an wi’ thumpin! 

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 
He’s stamiun an’ he’s jumpin! 

His lengthen’d chin, his turned-up snout. 
His eldritch squeel an’ gestures, 

O how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters. 

On sic a day! 

But, hark! the tent has chang’d its voice; 
There’s peace an’ rest nae langer; 

For a’ the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 

Smith 1 opens out his cauld harangues. 

On practice and on morals; 

An’ all the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an’ barrels 

A lift that day 

What signifies his barren shine 
Of moral pow’rs an’ reason ? 

His English style, an’ gesture fine. 

Are a’ clean out o' season, 

* The Rev. George Smith, minister at Galston, 



THE HOLY FAIR. 


71 


Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 

The moral man he does define, 

But ne’er a word o’ faith in 

That’s right that day. 


In gnid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison’d nostrum : 

For Peebles, 1 frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

See, up he’s got the word o’ God 
An’ meek an mim has view’d it, 

While Common Sense has ta’en the road, 

An’ afif, an’ up the Cowgate 2 

Fast, fast, that day. 

j Wee Miller ,3 neist, the Guard relieves, 
j An’ Orthodoxy raibles, 

Tho’ in his heart he weel believes, 

An’ thinks it auld wives’ fables : 

But, faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannilie he hums them ; 

Altho’ his carnal wit an’ sense 
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now, butt an’ ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi’ yill-caup Commentators : 

Here’s crying out for bakes an’ gills. 

An’ there the pint-stowp clatters ; 

While thick an’ thrang, an’ loud an’ lang, 

Wi’ logic, an’ wi’ Scripture, 

They raise a din, that in the end 
Is like to breed a rupture 

O’ wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gi’es us mair 
Than either School or College : 

It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 

It pangs us fou o’ Knowledge. 

Be’t whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion. 

It never fails, on drinkin’ deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an’ lasses, blythely bent 
To mind baith saul an’ body, 

* The Rev, William Peebles, minister of Newton-upon-Ayr, 

2 A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline. R. B, 

» The Rev, W, Miller, assistant preacher at Auchinleck, and afterwards minister ol 
Kilmaurs, near Kilmarnock, He was of short stature. 



72 


THE HOLY FAIR 


Sit round the table, weel content, 

An’ steer about the toddy. 

On this ane’s dress, an’ that ane’s leuk, 

They’re makin observations , 

While some are cozie i’ the neuk. 

An’ formin assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord’s ain trumpet touts, 

Till a’ the hills are rairin. 

An’ echoes back return the shouts r 
Black Russel ’ is na spairin • 

His piercing words, like Highlan swords, 

Divide the joints an’ marrow ; 

His talk o’ Hell, where devils dwell. 

Our vera “ sauls does harrow ” 

Wi’ fright that day ! 

A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit, 

Fill’d fou o' lowin brunstane’ 

Wha’s ragin flame, an’ scorchin heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 

The half asleep start up wi’ fear, 

An’ think they hear it roarin, 

When presently it does appear, 

’Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day, 

’Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 
How monie stories past. 

An’ how they crowded to the yill. 

When they were a’ dismist 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an’ caups 
Amang the furms and benches ; 

An’ cheese an’ bread, frae women’s laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An’ dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An’ sits down by the fire. 

Syne draws her kebbuck an’ her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 

The auld Guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 

Till some ane by his bonnet lays. 

An’ gi’es them’t like a tether, 

Fu’ lang that day. 

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass. 

Or lasses that hae naething' 

Sma’ need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing! 

• The Rev. John Russel, minister of the Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock. 

* Shakespeare’s Hamlet. R. B, 




DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 


73 


O Wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 
How bonie lads ye wanted, 

An’ dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day I 

Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattling tow. 
Begins to jow an’ croon; 

Some swagger liame, the best they dow, 
Some wait the afternoon. 

At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shooh. 

Wi’ faith an’ hope, an’ love an’ drink, 
They’re a’ in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 
O’ sinners and o’ lasses! 

Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, arc gane 
As saft as ony flesh is. 

There's some are fou o’ love divine. 
There’s some are fou o’ brandy; 

An’ monie jobs that day begin, 

IVIay end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 


DEATH AND DOCTOR IIORNBOOK.i 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end. 

And some great lies were never penn’d: 

Ev’n Ministers, they hae been kenn’d. 

In holy rapture, 

A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail’t wi’ Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 

Which lately on a night befell, 

Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell ^ 

Or Dublin city: 

That e’er he nearer comes oursel 

’s a muckle pity. 

‘ The composition of “ Death and Doctor Hornbook ” was suggested by the circum¬ 
stances related in the Preface. It was composed rapidly. Burns met the apothecary 
at a meeting of the Tarbolton Masonic lodge, and the next afternoon he repeated the 
entire poem to Gilbert. With refei’ence to its composition, Mr. Allen Cunningham 
supplies the following tradition, which is nonsense on the face of it. 

“ On his way home ’’—from the Masonic meeting—“ the Poet found a neighbor lying 
tipsy by the road-side ; the idea of Death flashed on his fancy, and seating himself 
on the parapet of a bridge, he composed the poem, fell asleep, and when awakened 
by the morning sun, he recollected it all, and wrote it down on reaching Mossgiel. 

The laughter occasioned by the publication of the satire drove, it is said, John 
Wilson, schoolmaster and apothecary, out of the county. He ultimately settled in 
Glasgow, became Session Clerk of the Gorbals, and died in 1839, “ Death and Doctor 
Hornbook ” first appeared in the Edinburgh edition of the poems, 

* Mr. Robert Wright, in his Life of Major-General James Wolfe, states that “Hell” 



74 


DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 


The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou, but just had plenty; 

I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay 

—To free the ditches; 

An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d ay 

Frae ghaists an’ witches. 

The rising moon began to glowr 

The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: 

To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r, 

I set mysel; 

But whether she had three or four, 

I cou’d na tell. 

I was come round about the hill. 

And todlin down on Willie’s mill. 

Setting my staff, wi’ a’ my skill. 

To keep me sicker; 

Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi’ Something did forgather, 

That pat me in an eerie swither; 

An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang: 

A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an’ lang. 


Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa, 

The queerest shape that e’er I saw. 

For fient a wame it had ava. 

And then its shanks. 

They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’ 

As cheeks o’ branks. 

“Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin, 

When ither folk are busy sawin ? ” * 

It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’. 

But naething spak; 

At length, says I, “ Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back ?” 

It spak right ho we—“My name is Death, 

But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “ Quid faith, 

Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath; 

But tent me, billie: 

1 red ye weel, tak car o’ skaith. 

See, there’s a gully! ” 

was the name given to the arched passage in Dublin which led into the area on the 
south side of Christ Church, and east of the law courts. A representation of the Devil, 
carved in oak, stood above the entrance. 

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. R. B. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 


75 


“ Gudeman,” quo’ he, “ put up 5^our whittle, 

I’m no design’d to try its mettle; 

But if 1 did, 1 wad be kittle 

To be mislear’d, 

I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-owre my beard.” 

“ Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t; 

Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t; 

We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat. 

Come gies your news; 

This while ye hae been mony a gate. 

At mony a house.”* 

“ Ay, ay! ” quo’ he, an’ shook his head, 

“It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed 

Sin’ 1 began to nick the thread. 

An’ choke the breath: 

Folk maun do something for their bread. 

An’ sae maun Death. 


“ Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 

Sin’ I was to the hutching bred. 

An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid. 

To stap or scaur me; 

Till ane Hornbook’s® ta’en up the trade. 

An’ faith, he’ll waur me, 

“Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan, 

Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan! 

He’s grown sae well acquaint wi’ Buchan® 

An’ ither chaps. 

The weans hand out their fingers laughin 
And pouk my hips. 

“ See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart, 

They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart; 

But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art 

And cursed skill. 

Has made them baith no worth a f—t. 

Damn’d haet they'll kill 

“’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane; 

Wi’ less. I’m sure. I’ve hundreds slain: 

But deil-ma-care. 

It just play’d dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 


• An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. R. B. . ^ j 

• This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order 
of the Ferula, but by intuition and inspiration is at once an apothecary, surgeon, 
and physician. R. B. 

• Buchan’s Domestic Medicine. R. B. 





76 


DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 


“ Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art, 

And had sae fortify’d the part, 

That when I looked to my dart. 

It was sae blun 

Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart 
O’ a kail-runt. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 

I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry, 

But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock; 

I might as weel hae try’d a quarry 

O’ hard whin rock. 

“E’en them he canna get attended, 

Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it. 

Just sh— in a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon’s he smells’t, 

Baith their disease, and what will mend it. 

At once he tells’t. 

“ And then, a’ doctor’s saws and whittles, 

Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, 

A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles. 

He’s sure to hae ; 

Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
As A B C. 

“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; 

True Sal-marinum o’ the seas; 

The Farina of beans and pease. 

He has’t in plenty; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please. 

He can content ye. 

“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 
Distill’d per se ; 

Sal-alkali o’ Midge-tail clippings. 

And mony mae.” 

“ Waes me for Johnny Ged’s^ Hole now,” 
Quoth I, “if that thae news be true! 

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonie, 
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew; 

They'll ruin Johnnie 1’* 

The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh. 

And says, *' Ye needna yoke the pleugh. 

» The grave-digger. R. B. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 


77 


Kirk-yards will soon be till’d eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear; 
They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh 
In twa-three year. 

“ Whare I kill’d ane a fair strae-death, 

By loss o’ blood or want of breath, 

This night I’m free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook’s skill 
Has clad a score i’ their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

“ An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce well-bred, 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head. 

When it was sair; 

The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne’er spak mair. 

“ A countra Laird had ta’en the batts, 

Or some curmurriug in his guts, 

His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An’ pays him well. 

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was Laird himsel. 

“A bonie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame: 

She trusts liersel, to hide the shame, 

lu Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 

Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay, 

An’s weel pay’d for’t; 
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey, 

Wi’ his damn’d dirt. 

“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot, 

Tho’ dinna ye be speaking o’t; 

I’ll nail the self-conceited Sot 

As dead's a herriu: 

Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin 1 ” 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 
Some wee, short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais’d us baith; 

I took the way that pleas’d mysel, 

And sae did Death. 




78 


THE BRIGS OF AYR. 


THE BRIGS OF AYR.* 

A POEM. 

ENSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTENE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plow, 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev’ry bough; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn busn, 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep-ton’d plovers, gray, wild-whistling o’er the hiii, 
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant’s lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early poverty to hardship steel’d. 

And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field; 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 

Or labor hard the panegyric close, 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 

No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 

And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings, 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron’s gen’rous care he trace, 

Skil’d in the secret, to bestow with grace; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name 
And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame. 

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 


’Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap. 

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 

Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; 

The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, 

Unnumber’d buds and flow’rs, delicious spoils, 

Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, 

Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak. 

The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek; 

The thund’ring guns are heard on ev’ry side. 

The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 

The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie. 

Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: 

* The occasion of this poem was the erection of a new bridge across the river at 
Ayr, to supersede the inconvenient structure built in the reign of Alexander III. Mr. 
Ballantine, Burns’s patron, and chief magistrate of the town, was mainly instrumental 
In raising funds for the work ; and to him the poem is dedicated. 






THE BRIGS OF AYR. 


79 


(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 

And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds !) 

Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs ; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 

Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee. 

Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree : 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days. 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 

While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays 

’Twas in that season ; when a simple Bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 

By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care. 

He left his bed and took his wayward rout. 

And down by Simpson’s ^ wheel’d the left about : 

(Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 

He wander’d out he knew not where nor why:) 

The drowsy Dungeon clock had number’d two. 

And Wallace Tow’r had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swoln Firth, wi’ sullen-sounding roar. 

Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore ; 

All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e ; 

The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 

Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream.— 

When, lo ! on either hand the list’ning Bard, 

The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 

Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air, 

Swift as the Gos ^ drives on the wheeling hare ; 

Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 

The ither flutters o’er the rising piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry’d 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. 

And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, 

And ev’n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 

Auld Brig appear’d o’ ancient Pictish race, 

The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 

He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang. 

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

New Brig was buskit, in a braw new coat. 

That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got ; 

In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, 

Wi’ virls an’ whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch; 

It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his e’e, 

And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he I 

noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. R. B. * The Gos-hawk or Falcon, R. B. 




8o 


THE BRIGS OF AYR. 


Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 

He, down the water, gies him this guid-een 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, Frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank, 

Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 

Tho’, faith! that date, 1 doubt, ye’ll never see; 

There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, 

Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense. 

Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense; 

Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 

Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet. 

Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane and lime, 

Compare wi’ bonie Brigs o’ modern time ? 

There’s men of taste wou’d ta’r the Ducat-stream,* 

Tho’ they should cast the vera sark and swim. 

Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view 
O’ sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! 

This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; 

And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn. 

I’ll be a Brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn! 

As yet ye little ken about the matter, 

But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 

When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains, 

Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; 

Wliep from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 

Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil. 

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source. 

Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes! 

In mony a torrent down his suaw-broo rowes; 

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate. 

Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; 

And from Glenbuck,^ down to the Ratton-key, 

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea; 

Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! 

And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 

That Architecture’s noble art is lost 1 

‘ A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. R. B. 

* The banks of Garpal water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland where 
those fancy-scaring beings known by the name of Ghaists still continue pertinaciously 
to inhabit. R. B. 

» “ Glenbuck,” the source of the river Ayr, R. B. 






THE BRIGS OF AYR. 


NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’ to’t; 
The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 

Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; 

O’er arching, moldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, 

The craz’d creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worship’d on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race. 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 

Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion. 

That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection. 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection I 


AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear remember’d, ancient yealins. 

Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings I 
Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, 

Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil ay ; 

Ye dainty Deacons, an’ ye douce Conveeners, 

To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners I 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town , 

Ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, 

Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters ; 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 

A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo. 

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 

And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen’rate race ! 

Nae langer Rev’rend Men, their country’s glory. 

In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an’ douce. 

Meet owrea pint, or in the Council-house ; 

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 

The herryment and ruin of the country ; 

Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers, 

Wha waste your weel hain’d gear on damn’d new Brigs 
and Harbors 1 





82 


THE BRIGS OF AYR. 


NEW BRIG. 

Now baud you there ! faith ye’ve said enough, 

And muckle niair than ye can mak to through : 

As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 

Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 

But, under favor o’ your langer beard, 

Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d: 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 
To mouth “ a Citizen,” a term o’ scandal ; 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street. 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an’ raisins, 

Or gather’d lib’ral views in bonds and seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp. 

Had shor’d them wi’ a glimmer of his lamp. 

And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 

What farther ciishmaclaver might been said. 

What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. 

No man can tell ; but all before their sight 
A fairy train appear’d in order bright . 

Adown the glittering stream they featly danc’d ; 

Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc’d 
They footed o’er the wat’ry glass go neat. 

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 

While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 

And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 

O had M’Lauchlan,* thairni-inspiring sage. 

Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 

When thro’ his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage, ! 
Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, 

The lover’s raptur’d joys or bleeding cares ; 

How would his Highland lug been nobler fir’d, 

And ev n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir’d 1 
No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, 

But all the soul of Music’s self was heard ; 

Harmonious concert rung in every part, 

While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears 
A venerable Chief, advanc’d in years ; 

His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d, 

His manly leg with garter tangle bound,’ 

Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 

Then crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy, ^ 

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye • 

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 

Led yellow Autumn wreath’d with nodding corn ; 

•a well-known performer of Scottish music on the violin. R. B.' 



THE ORDINATION. 


83 


Then Winter’s time-bleach’d locks did hoary show, 

By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 

Next follow’d Courage with his martial stride, 

From where the Feal * wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 

A female form,* came from the tow’rs of Stair : 

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine,* their long-lov’d abode: 

Last, white-rob’d Peace, crown’d with a hazel wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken, iron instruments of death; 

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 


THE ORDINATION.* 

For sense, they little owe to frugal Heav'n— 
To please the mob, they hide the little giv'n. 


Kilmarnock Wabsters, hdge and 
claw. 

An’ pour your creeshie nations; 
An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw. 

Of a’ denominations; 

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an’ a,’ 
An’ there tak up your stations; 
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw. 

An’ pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common-sense, that imp 0 ’ 
hell. 

Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder; ^ 

But Oliphant aft made her yell. 

An’ Russel sair misca’d her; 

This day M’Kinlay takes the flail. 
An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! 
He’ll clap a shangan on her tail. 

An’ set the bairns to daud her 
Wi’ dirt this day. 

Mak haste an’ turn king David owre, 
An’ lilt wi’ holy clangor; 

O* double verse come gie us four, 
An’ skirl up the Bangor: 

This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang 
her. 


For Heresy is in her pow’r. 

And gloriously she’ll whang her 
Wi’ pith this day. 

Come, let a proper text be read. 

An’ touch it off wi’ vigor, 

How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 
Which made Canaan a niger 
Or Phineas drove the murdering 
blade, 

Wi’ whore-abhorring rigor; 

Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad. 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I’ th’ Inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed. 
And bind him down wi’ caution. 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 
He takes but for the fashion; 

An’ gie him o’er the flock, to feed. 
And punish each transgression; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

’ Gie them sufficient threshin. 

Spare them nae day. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 
An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; 

Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the 
dale, 


* A stream near Coilsfleld. * Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

‘‘The seat of Professor Dugald Stewart. 1 • , t, • n ^ 

*“The Ordination” was composed on the Rev. Mr. Mackmlay being callea 10 
Kilmarnock. It was first printed in the second edition of the Poems. 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reve^'ena 
and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk. R. B. 




84 


THE ORDINATION. 


Because thy pasture’s scanty; 

For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail 
Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 

An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, 
No gi’en by way o’ dainty, 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by Babel streams we’ll 
weep, 

To think upon our Zion; 

And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 
Like baby-clouts a-dryin: 

Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ 
cheep. 

And o’er the thairms be tryin: 

Oh rare! to see our elbucks wheep. 
An a’ like lamb-tails flyin 

Fu’ fast this day! 

Lang, Patronage, wi’ rod o’ aim. 

Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin, 

As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to his ruin 
Our Patron, honest man! Glencairn, 
He saw mischief was brewin; 

And like a godly, elect bairn. 

He’s wal’d us out a true ane. 

And sound this day. 

Now Robinson harangue nae mair, 
But steek your gab forever: 

Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they’ll think you clever; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 

Or to the Netherton repair. 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match. 
We never had sic twa drones. 

Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk 
watch. 

Just like a winkin baudrons: 

And ay he catch’d the tither wretch, 
To fry them in his caudrons; 

But now his Honor maun detach, 

Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons. 
Fast, fast this day. 


See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes 
She’s swingein thro’ the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she 
plays! 

I vow it’s unco pretty 1 
There, Learning, with his Greekisb 
face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty; 

An Common-sense is gaun, she says, 
To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 


But there’s Morality himsel. 
Embracing all opinions; 

Hear, how he gies the tither j’-ell. 
Between his twa companions; 

See, how she peels the skin an’ fell. 
As ane were peelin onions! 

Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, 
And banish’d our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 


O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! 

Come bouse about the porter! 
Morality’s demure decoys 
Shall here nae mair find quarter; 
M’Kinlay, Russel are the boys 
That heresy can torture; 

They 11 gie her on a rape a hoyse. 
And cowe her measure shorter 

By tlT head somes,jay. 


Come, bring the tither mutchkin in. 
An here’s, for a conclusion. 

To every New Light ^ mother’s son. 
From this time forth. Confusion, 
If mair they deave us wi’ their din. 
Or Patronage intrusion, 

We’ll light a spunk, and, ev’ry skin, 
AVe’ll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 


’ “ New Light” IS a cant pnrase n the 
west of Scotland for those religious opin¬ 
ions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has so 
strenuously defended. R. B. 




ADDRESS TO THE DEIL, 


85 


THE CALF.i 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVENS, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2 . 

“ And ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall." 


Right, Sir} your text I’ll prove it 
true, 

Tho’ Heretics may laugh; 

For instance there’s yoursel just now, 
God knows, an unco Calf! 

And should some Patron be so kind. 
As bless you wi’ a kirk, 

I doubt na, Sir, but then we’ll find. 
Ye’re still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover’s raptur’d hour 
Shall ever be your lot. 

Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly Power, 
You e’er should be a Stot! 

Tho’, when some kind, connubial 

Dear 


Your but-and-ben adorns, 

The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverend 
James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 

Few men o’ sense will doubt your 
claim 

To rank amang the Nowte. 

And, when ye’re number’d wi’ the 
dead 

Below a grassy hillock, 

Wi’ justice they may mark your 
head— 

“ Here lies a famous Bullock! ” 


ADDRESS TO THE DEIL .2 


O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war— 

Milton. 


O thou! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie. 
Clos’d under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie. 
To scaud poor wretches! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An’ let poor damned bodies be; 


I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, 
Ev’n to a deil. 

To skelp an’scaud poor dogs like me, 
An’ hear us squeel! 

Great is thy pow’r,an’ great thy fame; 
Far kend an’ noted is thy name; 

An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame. 
Thou travels far; 


‘ With reference to this piece Burns wrote to a correspondent“ Warm recollection 
of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart, that I send him the prefixed bag¬ 
atelle, pleased with the thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a 
kind of distant language of friendship. ... It was merely an extemporaneous pro¬ 
duction, on a wager with Mr. Hamilton that I would not produce a poem on the sub¬ 
ject in a given time.” The Rev. Mr. Stevens was afterwards minister of one of the 
Scotch churches in London—where, in 1790, William Burns, the Poet’s brother, heard 
him preach—and he finally settled at Kilwinning in Ayrshire, where he died in 1824. 

2 Gilbert Burns says . “ It was, I think, in the winter of 1784, as we were going 
together with carts for coal to the family fire (and I could yet point out the par¬ 
ticular spot), that the author first repeated tome the “ Address to the Dell.” The 
curious idea of such an address was suggested to him by turning over in his mind 
the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have from various quarters of 
this august personage.” 





86 


ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 


An^ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame, 
Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion 
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin; 
Whyles on the strong wing’d Tem¬ 
pest fly in, 

Tirlin the kirks; 

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 
Unseen thou lurks. 

I’ve heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray; 

Or where auld, ruin’d castles, gray, 
Nod to the moon. 

Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, 
Wi’ eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie sum¬ 
mon. 

To say her pray’rs, douce, honest 
woman! 

Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you 
bummin, 

Wi’ eerie drone;. 

Or, rustlin, thro’ the boortrees comin, 
Wi’ heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light, 
Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright, 
Ayont the lough; 

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 
Wi’ waving sugh. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake. 
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor quaick, 
quaick, 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d hags, 
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, an’ dizzy crags, 
Wi’ wicked speed; 

And in kirk-yards renew their 
leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence, countra wives, wi’ toil an’ 
pain, 

May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in 
vain; 


For, oh! the yellow treasure’s taen 
By witching skill; 

An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gaen 
As yell’s the Bill. 

Thence, mystic knots mak great 
abuse, 

On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an 
crouse ; 

When the best wark-lume i’ the house, 
By cantrip wit. 

Is instant made no worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy 
hoord. 

An’ float the jinglin icy-boord. 

Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 
By your direction. 

An’ nighted Trav’lers are allur’d 
To their destruction. 

An’aft your moss-traversing Spunk- 
ies 

Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk 
is-. 

The bleezin, curst, mischievous mon¬ 
kies 

Delude his eyes. 

Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
Ne’er mair to rise. 

When Masons’ mystic word an’ grip. 
In storms an’ tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun 
stop. 

Or, strange to tell! 

The youngest Brother ye wad whip 
Aff straught to hell. 

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard. 
When youthfu’ lovers first were 
pair’d. 

An’ all the soul of love they shar’d. 
The raptur’d hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird, 
Itu shady bow’r. 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing 
dog! 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue, 
(Black be you fa!) 

An’ gied the infant warld a shog, 
’Maist ruin’d a’, 






DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE. 8/ 


D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz, 

Y'e did present your smoutie phiz, 
’Mang better folk, 

An’ sklented on the man of Uzz 
Your spitefu’ joke! 

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall. 
An brak him out o’ house an’ hall. 
While scabs an’ blotches did him gall 
Wi’ bitter claw, 

An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d, wicked 
Scawl, 

Was warst ava V 

But a’ your doings to rehearse. 

Your wdly snares an’ fetchin fierce. 
Sin’ that day MichaeP did you pierce, 
Down to this time. 


Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
In prose or rhyme. 

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re 
thinkin, 

A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him 
linkin. 

To your black pit; 

But, faith! he’ll turn a corner j inkin. 
An’ cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-benI 
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! 

Ye aiblitis might—I dinna ken— 

Still hae a stake— 

I’m wae to think upo’ yon den, 

Ev’n for your sake! 


THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE 
AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWE.-^ 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 


As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither. 
Was ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. 

An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie. 
When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 

Wi’ glowrin een, an lifted ban’s. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; 

He saw her days were near hand 
ended. 

But, waes my heart! he could na 
mend it ! 

fle gaped wide, but naething spak. 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

“ O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my wofu’ case! 


My dying w^ords attentive hear, 

An’ bear them to my Master dear. 

“Tell him, if e’er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 

O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! 
But ca’ them out to park or hill, 

An’ let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, an’ grow 
To scores o’ lambs, an' packs o’ 
woo’! 

“ Tell him, he was a Master kin'. 
An’ ay was guid to me an’ mine; 

An’ now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ 
him. 


* Vide Milton, Book vi. R. B. 

2 This was one of Burns’s earliest poems, the first indication of that peculiar moral 
humor of which the “ Twa Dogs ” is the finest example. It was written before 1784, 
and Gilbert Burns informed Dr. Currie that “the circumstances of the poor sheep were 
pretty much as he has described them : he had, partly by way of frolic, bought a 
ewe and two lambs from a neighbor, and she was tethered in a field adjoining the house 
at Lochlea. He and I were going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers 
to drive for us, at midday, when Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking, awkward lad, clad 
in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his face, with the information that the 
ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Robert was much 
tickled with Hughoc’s appearance and postures on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set 
to rights, and when we returned from the plow in the evening he repeated to me her 
* Death and Dying Words’ pretty much in the way they now stand.” 






88 DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE. 


" O, bid him save their harmless 
lives, 

Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butchers’ 
knives I 

But gie them guid cow-milk their fill. 

Till they be fit to fend themsel : 

An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, 

Wi teats o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn. 

“An’ may they never learn the 
gaets 

Of ither vile wanrestfu’ pets! 

To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an' 
steal, 

At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail. 

So may tliey, like their great For¬ 
bears, 

For monie a year come thro’ the 
sheers, 

So wives will gie them bits o’ bread. 

An’ bairns greet for them when 
they’re dead. 

“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ 
heir, 

O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! 

An’, jf he live to be a beast. 

To pit some bavins in his breast 1 


An’ warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; 
An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless 
brutes. 

“ An’ niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Glide keep thee frae a tether string! 
O, may thou ne’er forgather up 
Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop; 

But ay keep mind to moop an’ mell, 
Wi’ sheep o‘ credit like thysel! 

‘ And now, my bairns, wi’ my last 
breath 

I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith: 

An’ when you think upo’ your 
Mither, 

Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

'■ Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my Master a’ my tale. 

An’ bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An’, for thy pains, thou’se get my 
blether. ” 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her 
head. 

An’ clos’d her een amang the dead! 


POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY. 


Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi’ saut tears trickling down your 
nose; 

Our Bardie’s fate is at a close. 

Past a’ remead; 

The last, sad cape-stane of his woes; 
Poor Mailie’s dead! 

It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear, 

That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear 
The mourning weed : 
He’s lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro’ a’ the toun she trotted by him; 
A king half-mile she could descry 
him; 

Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy 
him. 

She ran wi’ speed : 

A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh 
him, 

Than Mailie dead. 


I wat she was a sheep o’ sense. 

An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense. 
I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence. 
Thro’ thievish greed. 
Our Bardie, lauely, keeps the spence 
Sin’ Mailie’s dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 

Her living image in her yowe 
Comes bleating to him, owre the 
knowe. 

For bits o’ bread , 

An’ down the briny pearls rowe 
For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o’ moorland tips, 
Wi’ tawted ket, an’ hairy hips. 

For her forbears were brought in 
ships, 

Frae yont the Tweed: 

A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the 
clips 

Than Mailie’s dead. 





TO JAMES SMITH. 


89 


Wae worth the man wha first did 
shape 

That vile, wanchancie thing—a rape 1 
It maks guid fellows grin an’ gape, 
AVi’ chokin dread; 

An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape, 
For Mailie dead. 


O, a’ ye Bards on bonnie Doou! 

An’ wha on Ayr your chanters 
tune! 

Come, join the melancholious croon 
O’ Robin’s reed! 

His heart will never get aboon! 

His Mailie’s dead I 


TO JAMES SMITH .1 

Friendship ! mysteriotts cement of the soul! 
Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society! 

I oive thee much. Blair. 


Dear Smith, thesleeest, paukie thief, 
That e’er attempted stealth‘or rief. 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 
Owre human hearts; 

For ne’er a bosom yet was prief 
Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon. 
And ev’ry star that blinks aboon. 
Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon 
Just gaun to see you, 

And ev’ry ither pair that’s done, 
Mair taen I’m wi’ you. 

That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She’s turn’d you aff, a human crea¬ 
ture 

On her first plan, 

And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature. 
She’s wrote, “ The Man.” 

Just now I’ve taen the fit o’ rhyme. 
My barmie noddle’s working prime. 
My fancie yerkit up sublime 
Wi’ hasty summon: 

Hae ye a leisure-moment’s time 

To hear what’s comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor’s name to lash; 
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for 
needfu’ cash; 

Some rhyme to court the contra clash. 
An’ raise a din; 

For me, an aim I never fash; 

I rhyme for fun. 


The star that rules my luckless lot. 
Has fated me the russet coat. 

An’ damn’d my fortune to the groat; 
But, in requit. 

Has blest me with a random shot 
O’ countra wit. 

This while my notion’s taen a sklent. 
To try my fate in guid, black prent; 
But still the mair I’m tliat way bent. 
Something cries, ‘ ‘ Hoolie! 
I red you, honest man, tak tent! 

Ye’ll shaw your folly. 

"There’s ither poets, much your 
betters. 

Far seen in Greek, deep men o’ letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their 
debtors, 

A’ future ages; 

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters 
Their unknown pages.” 

Then farewell hopes 0 ’ laurel boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows! 
Henceforth I’ll rove where busy 
ploughs 

Are whistling thrang. 

An’ teach the lanely heightsan’ howes 
My rustic sang. 

I’ll wander on, wi’ tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 

Then, all unknown, 

I’U lay me with th’ inglorious dead, 
Forgot and gone! 


1 Mr. James Smith was, when this epistle was written, a shopkeeper in Mauchlinet 
He afterwards removed to Avon near Linlithgow, where he established a calico-print¬ 
ing manufactory. Being unsuccessful in his speculations, he emigrated to the West 
Indies, where he died. 





90 


TO JAMES SMITH. 


But why o’ Death begin a tale ? 

Just now we’re living sound an’ hale; 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 
Heave Care o’er side! 

And large, before Enjoyment’s gale. 
Let’s tak the tide. 

This life, sae far’s 1 understand, 

Is a’ enchanted fairy-land. 

Where pleasure is the magic wand. 
That, wielded right, 

Maks hours like minutes, hand in 
hand 

Dance by fu’ light. 

The magic wand then let us wield • 
For, ance that five-an’-forty’s speel’d. 
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 

Wf wrinkl’d face. 

Comes hoistin, hirplin owre the field, 
Wi’ creepin pace. 

When ance life’s day draws near the 
gloamin. 

Then fareweel vacant carelessroamin; 
An’ fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foam- 
in. 

An’ social noise; 

An’ fareweel dear deluding woman. 
The joy of joys! 

O life! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy’s rays the hills adorn¬ 
ing ! 

Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorn¬ 
ing, 

We frisk away, 

Like schoolboys, at th’ expected 
warning. 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 
Among the leaves. 

And tho’ the puny wound appear. 
Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spot. 

For which they never toil’d nor swat; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat. 
But care or pain; 

And, haply, eye the barren hut 
With high disdain. 


With steady aim, some Fortune 
chase; 

Keen hope does ev’ry sinew brace ; 
Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the 
race. 

And seize the prey; 

Then cannie, in some cozie place, 
They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan’. 
Poor wights 1 nae rules nor roads ob- 
servin. 

To right or left, eternal swervin. 
They zig-zag on; 

Till curst with age, obscure an’ 
starvin. 

They aften groan. 

Alas 1 what bitter toil an’ straining— 
But truce wi’ peevish, poor complain¬ 
ing! 

Is Fortune’s fickle Luna waning V 
E’en let her gang! 

Beneath what light she has remain¬ 
ing. 

Let’s sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, “Ye Pow’rs! ” and warn, 
implore, 

‘ ‘ Tho’ I should wander Terra o’er, 

In all her climes. 

Grant me but this, I ask no more. 

Ay rowth o’ rhymes. 

“ Gie dreeping roasts to countra 
Lairds, 

Till icicles hing frae their beards; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine LifC' 
guards, 

And Maids of Honor; 

And yill an’ whisky gie to Cairds, 
Until they sconner. 

“ A Title, Dempster 1 merits it; 

A Garter gie to Willie Pitt; 

Gie Wealth to same be-ledger’d Cit, 
In cent per cent; 

But gie me real, sterling Wit, 

And I’m content. 

“While Ye are pleased to keep m^ 
hale 

I’ll sit down o’er my scanty meal, 

^ George Dempster, Esq. of Dunnichen 







A DREAM. 


91 


Be’t water-brose, or muslin kail, 

Wi’ clieerfu’ face. 

As lang’s the Muses dinua fail 
To say the grace.” 

An anxious e’e 1 never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose; 

I jouk beneath Misfortune’s blows 
As weel’s I may; 

Sworn foe to Sorrow,Care, and Prose, 
1 rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and 
cool, 

Compar’d wi’ you—O fool! fool! 
fool ! 

How much unlike! 

Your hearts are just a standing pool. 
Your lives, a dyke! 


Nae hair-brain’d sentimental traces, 
In your unletter’d, nameless faces! 

In arioso trills and graces 
Ye never stray, 

But gravissimo, solemn basses 
Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re 
wise; 

Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 
The rattlin squad. 

1 see you upward cast your eyes— 
Ye ken the road.— 

Whilst I—but 1 shall hand me there— 
Wi’ you I’ll scarce gang ony where— 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 
But quat my sang. 
Content with Y"ou to mak a pair, 
Whare’er I gang. 


A DREAM.^ 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; 

But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 
1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to 
the Birthday Levee ; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 


Guid-Mornin to your Majesty! 

May heaven augment your blisses. 
On ev’ry new Birthday ye see ; 

A humble Bardie wishes! 

My Bardship here, at your Levee, 
On sic a day as this is. 

Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 
Amang thae Birthday dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye’re complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an’ lady ; 

“God save the King !”’s a cuckoo 
sang 

That’s unco easy said ay ; 

The Poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi’ rhymes weel-turn’d and ready. 
Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang. 
But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 


For me! before a Monarch’s face, 
Ev’n there I winna flatter; 

For neither pension, post, nor place, 
Am I your humble debtor: 

So, nae reflection on Your Grace, 
Your Kingship to bespatter; 
There’s monie waur been o’ the Race, 
And aiblins ane been better 
Than You this day. 

’Tis very true, my sovereign King, 
My skill may weel be doubted ; 
But Facts are chiels that winna ding, 
An’ downa be disputed • 

Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, 
Is e’en right reft an’ clouted, 

And now the third part of the 
string ,2 

An’ less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 


* Certain of Burns’s friends—Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart of Stair—considered 
the “Dream” to contain perilous stuff. These ladies, it is said, vainly solicited the 
Poet to omit it in the second edition of his poems. The “ Dream,” if not a high, is a 
very characteristic effort: there never was an easier hand-gallop of verse. 

* An allusion to the loss of the North American colonies. 


18—Burns—E 






92 


A DREAM. 


Far bo’t frae me that I aspire 
To blame your legislation, 

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ; 

But, faith 1 I muckle doubt, my 
Sire, 

Ye’ve trusted Ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 
Wad better fill’d their station 
Than courts yon day. 

And now ye’ve gien auld Britain 
peace 

Her broken shins to plaister; 

Your sair taxation does her fleece 
Till she has scarce a tester ; 

For me, thank God, my life’s a lease 
Nae bargain wearing faster. 

Or, faith! I fear that with the geese, 
I shortly boost to pasture 

r the craft some day. 

I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges. 

(An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get, 
A name not envy spairges,) 

That he intends to pay your debt. 
An’ lessen a’ your charges; 

But, God’s sake! let nae saving-fit 
Abridge your bonnie barges ^ 

An’ boats this day. 

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom 
geek 

Beneath your high protection; 

An’ may Ye rax Corruption’s neck. 
And gie her for dissection! 

But since I’m here. I’ll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection. 

To pay your Queen, with due respect. 
My fealty an’ subjection 

This great Birthday. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent! 

While nobles strive to please Ye, 
Will Ye accept a compliment 
A simple Poet gies Ye? 

1 “ On the supplies for the Navy being 
voted, Spring 178G, Captain Macbride coun¬ 
seled some* changes in that force, partic¬ 
ularly the giving up of sixty-four gun- 
ships, which occasioned a good deal of 
discussion.” Chambers. 


Thae bonny bairntime, Heav’n has 
lent. 

Still higher may they heeze Ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 
For ever to release Ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young Potentate o’ Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 

Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling 
sails 

I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely; 

But some day ye may gnaw your 
nails. 

An curse your folly sairly. 

That ere ye brak Diana’s pales. 

Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie,^ 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte’sbeen known 
To mak a noble aiver; 

Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, 
For a’ their clish-ma-claver. 

There, Him at Agincourt wha shone, 
Few better were or braver; 

And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John, 
He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,^ 
Nanesets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho’ a ribban at your lug 
Wad been a dress completer-. 

As ye disown yon paughty dog 
That bears the Keys of Peter, 
Then, swith! an’ get a wife to hug. 
Or, troth! ye’ll stain the Mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks,® I learn, 
Ye’ve lately come athwart her; 

A glorious galley, stem and stern,^ 
Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter, 

But first hang out, that she’ll discern 
Your hymeneal charter, 

Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 
An’, large upon her quarter. 

Come full that day. 

* Charles James Fox. 

® Frederick, Bishop of Osnaburg, after¬ 
wards Duke of York. 

3 William, afterwards Duke of Clarence, 
and King William IV 

* Alluding to the newspaper account of 
a certain royal sailor’s amour, R. B. 





THE VISION. 


93 


Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’, 

Ye royal Lasses dainty, 

Ileav’n mak you guid asweel as braw. 
An’ gie you lads a-plenty: 

But sneer na British boys awa’, 

For Kings are unco scant ay; 

An’ German Gentles are but sma’. 
They’re better just than want ay 
On onie day. 


God bless you a’! consider now 
Ye’re uncomuckle dautet; 

But, e’er the course o’ life be through, 
It may be bitter sautet; 

An’ I hae seen their coggie fou. 
That yet hae tarrow’t at it; 

But or the day was done, I trow, 
The laggen they hae clautet 
Fu’ clean that day. 


THE' VISION. 

DUAN FIRST. 


The sun had clos’d the winter day. 
The Curlers quat their roarin play. 
An’ hunger’d Maukin taen her way 
To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 
Whare she has been. 

The thresher’s weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me; 

And whan the day had clos’d hise’e. 
Far i’ the west, 

Ben i’ the Spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 

I sat and ey’d the spewing reek. 
That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking 
smeek. 

The auld clay biggin; 

An’ heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 

I backward mus’d on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu’ prime. 
An’ done nae-thing. 

But stringin blethers up in rhyme, 
For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 

I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 
My cash account. 

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half- 
sarkit. 

Is a’ th’ amount. 


I started, mutt’ring, blockhead! coof! 
And heav’d on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a’ yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith. 

That I, henceforth, w^ould be rhyme 
proof 

Till my last breath— 

When click! the string the snick did 
draw; 

And jee! the door gaed to the wa’; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 

A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw. 
Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-formed, was 
crusht; 

I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht 
In some wild glen; 

When sweet, like modest worth, she 
blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, gracefu’, round her 
brows, 

I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
By that same token; 

And come to stop these reckless vows, 
Would soon been broken. 

A “ hair-brain’d, sentimental trace,” 
Was strongly marked in her face; 

A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 


’ Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of a digressive poem See 
Ais “ Cath-Lcda,” vol. ii. of McPherson’s translation. R. B. 






94 


THE VISION, 


Her eye, ev’ri turn’d on empty space, 
Beamed keen with Honor. 

Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen; 
And such a leg! my bonnie Jean ^ 
Could only peer it; 

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and 
clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-min- 
gling threw 

A lustre grand; 

And seem’d, to my astonish'd view 
A well known Land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were 
tost 

Here, tumbling billows mark’d the 
coast 

With surging foam; 
There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast. 
The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour’d down his far- 
fetch’d floods; 

There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro’ his 
woods, 

On to the shore; 

And many a lesser torrent scuds, 
With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 

An ancient Borough rear’d her head; 
Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a Race, 

To ev’ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish’d grace. 

‘ This line supplies a curious instance of 
the fluctuations of Burns’s mind and pas¬ 
sion it was originally written as it stands 
in the text, but in the bitter feeling in¬ 
duced by the destruction of the marriage 
lines he had given to Jean Armour he 
transferred the compliment to the reign¬ 
ing favorite of the hour. In the first edi¬ 
tion the line stood— 

And such a leg I my Bess, t ween. 

In the Edinburgh edition, the old affection 
oelng in the ascendant again, the line was 
restored to its original shape. 

* This and the six following stanzas ap- 


By stately tow’r or palace fair, 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there, 
I could discern; 

Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d 
to dare. 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a Race ^ heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy’d 
steel 

In sturdy blows; 

While back-recoiling seem’d to reel 
Their Suthron foes. 

His Country’s Saviour, ^ mark him 
well! 

Bold Richard ton’s ^ heroic swell; 

The Chief * on Sark who glorious fell. 
In high command; 

And He whom ruthless fates expel 
His native land. 

There, where a scepter’d Pictish shade 
Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,® 

I mark’d a martial Race, portray’d 
In colors strong; 

Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismay’d 
They strode along. 

Thro’ many a wild, romantic grove,® 
Near many a hermit-fanc 3 ''’d cove, 

peared for the first time ia the second 
edition. 

^ The Wallaces. R. B. 

* William Wallace. R. B. 

* Adam Wallace of Richard ton, cousin of 
the immortal preserver of Scottish inde¬ 
pendence. R. B. 

* Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was 
second in command, under Douglas, Earl 
of Ormund, at the famous battle on the 
banks of the Sark, fought anno 1448. That 
glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valor 
of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died 
of his wounds after the action. R. B. 

® Coilus, King of the Piets, from whom 
the district of Kyle is said to take its name, 
lies buried, as tradition says, near the 
family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 
field, where his burialplace is still shown. 
R. B. 

« Barskimming, the seat of the Lord 
Justice Clerk. R. B. (Sir Thomas Miller 
of Glenlee, afterwards President of the 
Court of Session). 





THE VISION. 


95 


(Fit haunts for Friendship or for 
Love 

In musing mood,) 

An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 
Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned Sire and Son I saw,* 

To Nature’s God and Nature’s law 
They gave their lore, 


This, all its source and end to draw; 
That, to adore. 

Brydon’s brave Ward I well could 

spy, 

Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye; 
Who call’d on Fame, low standing by. 
To hand him on. 

Where many a Patriot name on high, 
And Hero shone. 


DDAN SECOND. 


With musing-deep, astonish’d stare, 
I view’d the heavenly-seeming Fair; 
A whisp’ring throb did witness bear. 
Of kindred sweet, 

When with an elder Sister’s air 
She did me greet. 

“All hail! my own inspired Bard! 

In me thy native Muse regard! 

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 
Thus poorly low! 

1 come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

“ Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 

Who, all beneath his high command. 
Harmoniously, 

As Arts or Arms they understand. 
Their labors ply. 

“ They Scotia’s Race among them 
share 

Some fire the Soldier on to dare; 
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 
Corruption’s heart: 
Some teach the Bard, a darling care. 
The tuneful art. 

“’Mong swelling floods of reeking 
gore, 

They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, ’mid the venal Senate’s roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest Patriot lore. 
And grace the hand, 

*■ Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and 
present Professor, Stewart. R. B. 


“ And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, 

Charm or instruct the future age. 

They bind the wild. Poetic rage 
In energy. 

Or point the inconclusive page 
Full on the eye. 

“Hence, Fullarton,i the brave and 
young; 

Hence, Dempster’s zeal - inspired 
tongue; 

Hence, sweet harmonious Beattie 
sung 

His ‘Minstrel lays’; 

Or tore, with noble ardor stung. 

The Skeptic’s bays. 

“To lower orders are assign’d 

The humbler ranks of human-kind. 

The rustic Bard, the lab’ring Hind, 
The Artisan; 

All choose, as various they’re inclin’d. 
The various man. 

“When yellow waves the heavy 
grain, 

The threat’ning storm some strongly 
rein; 

Some teach to meliorate the plain 
With tillage-skill; 

And some instruct th^e Shepherd- 
train, 

Blythe o’er the hill. 

“Some hint the Lover’s harmless 
wile; 

Some grace the Maiden’s artless 
smile; 

^ Colonel Fullarton. R. B. 






96 


THE VISION. 


Some soothe the Lab’rer’s weary toil, 
For liurable gains, 

And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
His cares and pains. 

“Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large Man’s infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 
Of rustic Bard; 

And careful note each op’ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

“ Of these am I—Coila my name; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of 
fame. 

Held ruling pow’r: 

3 mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame. 
Thy natal hour. 

“With future hope, I oft would 
gaze. 

Fond, on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely-caroll’d, chiming phrase. 
In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir’d at the simple, artless lays 
Of other times. 

“I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar. 

Or when the North his fleecy store 
Drove thro’ the sky, 

1 saw grim Nature’s visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

“ Or when the deep green-mantl'd 
Earth 

Warm - cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s 
birth. 

And joy and music pouring forth 
In ev’ry grove, 

I saw thee eye the gen’ral mirth 
With boundless love. 

“When ripen’d fields, and azure 
skies. 

Call’d forth the Reaper’s rustling 
noise, 

1 saw thee leave their ev’ning joys. 
And lonely stalk. 

To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise 
In pensive walk. 


“ When youthful Love, warm-blush¬ 
ing strong. 

Keen - shivering shot thy nerves 
along, 

Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th’ adored Name, 

I taught thee how to pour in song. 
To soothe thy flame. 

“I saw thy pulse’s maddening play. 
Wild send thee Pleasures devious 
way. 

Misled by Fancy’s meteor ray. 

By Passion viriven 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 

“I taught thy manners-painting 
strains. 

The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o’er all my wide domains 
Thy fame extends, 

And some, the pride of Coila s plains. 
Become thy friends. 

“Thou caust not learn, nor can I 
show, 

To paint with Thomson’s landscape- 
glow ; 

Or wake the bosom melting throe, 
AVith Shenstone’s art 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
AVariir on the heart. 

“Yet, all beneath th’ unrivall’d lose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows, 

Tho’ large the forest’s monarch 
throws 

His army shade. 

Yet green the juicy haw^thorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

“ Then never murmur nor repine: 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 
And trust me, not Potosi s mine. 

Nor King’s regard. 

Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

“ To give my counsels all m one. 
Thy tuneful flame still carelul jan. 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

AVith Soul erect; 

And trust, the Universal Plan 
Will all protect. 






ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID. 


97 


“ And wear thou this ”—she solemn 
said, 

And bound the Holly round my 
head. 


The polish’d leaves, and berries red, 
Did rustling play; 

And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 


ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule. 

And lump them aye thegither; 

The Rigid Righteous is a fool. 

The Rigid Wise anither; 

The cleanest corn that e'er was diqht, 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 

So ne'er a felloiv-creature slight 
For random fits o' daffln. 

Solomon.— Eccles. vii. 16. 


O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy. 

Ye’ve naught to do but mark and tell 
Your Neebor’s fauts and folly! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill. 
Supply’d wi’ store o’ water. 

The heapet happer’s ebbing still. 
And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable Core, 

As counsel for poor mortals. 

That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s 
door. 

For glaikit Folly’s portals; 

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 
Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mis¬ 
takes. 

Their failings and mischances. 

Ye see your state wi’ theirs com¬ 
par’d. 

And shudder at the niffer. 

But cast a moment’s fair regard. 
What maks the mighty differ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave 
That purity ye pride in. 

And Uvhat’s aft mair than a’ the 
lave). 

Your better art o’ hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 
Gies now and then a wallop. 

What raging must his veins convulse 
That still eternal gallop • 

Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail, 
Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail, 

It makes an unco leeway. 


See Social life and Glee sit down. 

All joyous and unthinking. 

Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re 
grown 

Debauchery and Drinking: 

O would they stay to calculate 
Th’ eternal consequences; 

Or your more dreaded hell to state, 
Damnation of expenses! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 
Ty’d up in godly laces, 

Before you gie poor Frailty names. 
Suppose a change o’ cases; 

A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug, 
A treacherous inclination— 

But, let me whisper i’ your lug. 
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation. 

Then gently scan your brother Man, 
Still gentler sister Woman; 

Tho’ they may gangakennin wrang. 
To step aside is human: 

One point must still be greatly 
dark. 

The moving Why they do it; 

And just as lamely can ye mark. 
How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone 
Decidedly can try us, 

He knows each chord its various 
tone, 

Each spring its various bias: 

Then at the balance let’s be mute. 
We never can adjust it; 

What’s done we partly may compute, 
But know not what’s resisted. 





98 


TAM SAMSON’S ELEGY. 


TAM SAMSON’S ELEGY.» 


An honest man's the no 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Dell ? 
Or great M’Kinlay thrawn his heel ? 
Or Robinson again grown weel, 

To preach an’ read ? 

“ Na, waur than a’! ” cries ilka chiel, 
“ Tam Samson’s dead! ” 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an 
grane, 

An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane. 
An’ deed her bairns, man, wife, an’ 
wean. 

In mourning weed; 

To Death, she’s dearly paid the kane, 
Tam Samson’s dead 1 

The Brethren o’ the mystic level 
May hing their head in wofu’ bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will 
revel, 

Like ony bead; 

Death’s gien the Lodge an unco 
devel, 

Tam Samson’s dead! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
When to the loughs the Curlers flock 
Wi’ gleesome speed, 

Wha will they station at the cock, 
Tam Samson’s dead V 

He was the king o* a’ the Core, 

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 
In time o’ need ; 

But now he lags on'DedAXi'shog-score, 
Tam Samson’s dead! 

Now safe the stately Sawmout sail. 
And Trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson 
hail. 

And Eels weel kend for souple tail. 
And Geds for greed. 

Since dark in Death’s fish-creel we 
wail 

Tam Samson dead 1 

^ When this worthy old sportsman went 
was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last 
sire to die and be buried in the nauirs. 
Elegy and Epitaph. R. B. 


lest toork of God.— Pope. 

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a’; 

Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw.; 
Ye Maukins, cock your fud fu’braw, 
Withouten dread; 

Your mortal Pae is now awa’, 

Tam Samson’s dead! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn’d 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn’d. 
While pointers round impatient 
burn’d, 

Frae couples freed; 

But, Och! he gaed and ne’er re¬ 
turn’d I 

Tam Samson’s dead 1 

In vain auld age his body batters; 

In vain the gout his ancles fetters; 

In vain the burns came down like 
waters, 

An acre braid I 

Now ev’ry auld wife, greetiu, clat¬ 
ters, 

‘ ‘ Tam Samson’s dead I ” 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit. 
An’ ay the tither shot he thumpit. 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit 
Wi’ deadly feide; 

Now he proclaims, wi’touto’ trumpet, 
Tam Samson’s dead I 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 
Wi’ weel-aim’d heed; 

“ Lord, five! ” he cry’d, an’ owre did 
stagger; 

Tam- Samson’s dead 1 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a 
father: 

Yon auld gray stane, amang the 
heather, 

Marks out his head, 

out last muir-fowl season, he supposed it 
of his fields,” and expressed an ardent de- 
On this hint the author composed his 





HALLOWEEN. 


99 


Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming 
blether, 

“Tam Samson’s dead!” 

There, low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast 
Somespitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest, 
To hatch and breed; 
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! 

Tam Samson’s dead! 

When August winds the heather 
wave 

And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem’ry crave 
O’ pouther an’ lead. 

Till Echo answer frae lier cave, 

Tam Samson’s dead! 

Heav’n rest his saul, whare’er he be! 
Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me ; 


He had twa faults, or maybe three, 
Yet what remead ? 

Ae social, honest man want we: 

Tam Samson’s deadl 

THE EPITAPH, 

Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here 
lies, 

Ye canting zealots, spare him! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 

Ye’ll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly 
Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie, 
Tell ev’ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith’d by Death’s gleg 
gullie, 

Tam Samson’s livin I 


HALLOWEEN. 1 


The following Poem will by many readers be well enough understood ; but for the 
sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country 
where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms 
and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. 
The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nat¬ 
ure, in its rude state, in all ages and nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind if any such should honor the Author wdth a perusal, to see the remains 
of it, among the more unenlightened in our owm. R. B.] 

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 

The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 


Upon that night, when Fairies light 
On Cassilis Downans dance, 

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 
On sprightly coursers prance; 

Or for Colean the rout is ta’en. 
Beneath the moon’s pale beams; 
There, up the Cove,® to stray an’ rove 
Amang the rocks and streams 
To sport that night; 


Amang the bonnie, winding banks, 
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
Where Bruce ^ ance rul’d the martial 
ranks, 

An’ shook his Carrick spear. 

Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 
Together did convene. 

To burn their nits, an’ pou their 
stocks, 


* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are 
all abroad on their baneful midnight errands ; particularly those aerial people, the 
fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary R. B. 

Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighborhood of the ancient seat 
of the Earls of Cassilis. R. B. . , . . ,, 

® A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as 

Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favorite haunt of fairies. P* 

• The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his 
pountry, were Earls of Carrick. R. B. 





lOO 


HALLOWEEN, 


An’ liaud their Halloween 

Fu’ blytlie that night. 

The lasses feat, an’ cleanly neat, 
Mair braw than when they’re fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu’ sweetly kythe, 
Hearts leal, an’ warm, an’ kin ’; 
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs, 
Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, an’ some wi’ gabs. 
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin 
Whyles fast at night. 

Then, first an’ foremost, thro’ the kail. 
Their stocks ^ maun a’ be sought 
ance: 

They steek their een, an’ grape, an’ 
wale. 

For muckle anes, an’ straught anes. 
Poor hav’rel Will fell aff the drift. 
An’ wander’d thro’ the Bow-kail, 
An’ pou’t, for want o’ better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow’t that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird or 
nane. 

They roar an’ cry a’ throu’ther; 
The vera wee things, toddlin, rin, 
Wi’ stocks out-owre their shou- 
ther; 

An’ gif the custocks sweet or sour, 
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi’ cannie care, they’ve plac’d 
them 

To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae ’mang them a’ 
To pou their stalks o’ corn; 2 


But Rab slips out, an’ jinks about, 
Behint the muckle thorn, 

He grippet Nelly hard an’ fast; 

Loud skirl’d a’ the lasses; 

But her tap-pickle maist was lost. 
When kiutlin i’ the fause-house ^ 
Wi’ him that night. 

The auld guidwife’s weel-hoordit 
nits ^ 

Are round an’ round divided. 

An’ monie lads’ and lasses’ fates 
Are there that night decided; 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 
An’ burn thegither trimly; 

Some start awa’ wi’ saucy pride. 

An’ jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu’ high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e; 

Wha ’twas, she wadna tell; 

But this is Jock, and this is me. 

She says in to hersel; 

He bleez’d owre her, an’ she owre 
him, 

As they wad never mair part; 

Till fuff! he started up the lum. 

An’ Jean had e’en a sair heart 
To see’t that night. 

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt. 
Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie, 

An’ Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt. 
To be compar’d to Willie ; 

Mall’s nit lap out, wi’ pridefu’ fling. 
An’ her ain fit it brunt it; 

While Willie lap, an’ swoor by jing, 
’Twas just the Avay he wanted 
To be that night. 


1 The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. They 
must go out hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with. Its being 
big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object 
of all their spells—the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is 
tocher, or fortune ; and the taste of the custock, that is the heart of the stem, is indica¬ 
tive of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or to give them their 
ordinary appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the door; 
and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, accord¬ 
ing to the priority of placing the runts, the names in question. R. B. 

* They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If 
the third stalk wants the tap-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party 
in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. R. B. 

® When the corn is in a doubtful state, it being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by 
means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment, in his stack, with an opening in the 
side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a Fause-house. R. B. 

* Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and the lass to each par¬ 
ticular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, 
or start from beside one anotlier, the course and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. 




HALLOWEEN. 


lOI 


Nell had the fause-house in her mia’ 
She pits hersel an’ Rob in; 

In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 
Till white in ase they’re sobbin- 
Nell’s heart was dancin at the view; 

She whisper’d Rob to leuk for’t. 
Rob, stownlins, prie’d her bonnie 
mou, 

Fu’ cozie in the neiik for’t. 

Unseen tliat night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs. 
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; 

She lea’es them gashin at their cracks. 
An’ slips out by hersel • 

She thro’ the yard the nearest taks, 
An’ to the kiln she goes then. 

An’ darklins grapit for the banks, 
And in the blue-clue ^ throws then. 
Right fear’t that night. 

An’ aye she win’t, an’ ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin; 

Till something held within the pat, 
Guid Lord! but she was quaukin! 
But whether ’twas the Deil himsel, 
Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’, 

Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 
“Will ye go wi’ me. Grannie ? 

“ I’ll eat the apple ^ at the glass, 

“ I gat frae uncle Johnie: ” 

She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt. 

In wrath she was sae vap’rin. 

She notic’t na, an aizle brunt 
Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro’ that night. 


“ Ye little Skelpie-limmer’s face! 

“ I daur you try sic sportin, 

“ As seek the foul Thief only place, 
“ For him to spae your fortune ? 

“ Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! 

“ Great cause ye hae to fear it; 

“ For monie a ane has got a fright, 

“ And liv’d an’ di’d deleeret, 

“ On sic a night. 

“ Ae Hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

“ I mind’t as weel’s yestreen, 

“ I was a gilpey then, I’m sure 
“ I was na past fyfteen; 

“ The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 
“ An’ stuff was unco’ green; 

“ An’ ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

“ An’ just on Halloween 

“It fell that night. 

“ Our stibble-rig was Rab M’Graen, 
“ A clever, sturdy fallow; 

“ His sin gat Eppie Sim wi’ wean, 

“ That liv’d in Achmacalla; 

“ He gat hemp-seed,2 I mind itweel, 
“ An’ he made unco light o’t; 

“ But monie a day was hy himsel, 

“ He was sae sairly frighted 
“ That vera night.” 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 
An’ he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a’ but nonsense: 

The auld guidman raught down the 
pock, 

An’ out a handfu’ gied him; 

Syne bad him slip frae ’mang the folk, 
Sometime when nae ane see’d him. 
An’ try’t that night. 


1 Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions; 
Steal out, all alone to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the ■pot a clue of blue yarn; 
wind it in a new clue off the old one ; and towards the latter end something will hold 
the thread ; demand Wlia hands ? i.e., who holds ? an answer will be returned from 
the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse. R. B. 

*Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple before it, and some tra¬ 
ditions say you should comb your hair all the time ; the face of your conjugal compan¬ 
ion to be will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. R. B. 

® Steal out unperceived and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything 
you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, “ Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 
hemp-seed, I saw thee ; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come aRer me and 
pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the per¬ 
son invoked in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some-traditions say, ” come after me 
and shaw thee,” that is, show thyself ; in which case it simply appears. Others omit 
the harrowing, and say, ” come after me and harrow thee.” R. B. 





102 


HALLOWEEN. 


He marches thro’ amang the stacks, 
The’ he was something sturtin; 
The graip he for a harrow taks, 

An’ haurls at his curpin • 

An’ ev’ry now an’ then, he says, 

“ Hemp-seed, 1 saw thee, 

‘ ■ An’ her that is to be my lass, 

" Come after me an’ draw thee 
‘ ‘ As fast this night. ” 

He whistl’d up Lord Lenox’ march. 
To keep his courage cheary; 
Altho’ his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley’d an’ eerie . 

Till presently he hears a squeak. 

An’ then a grane an’ gruntle; 

He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An’ tumbl’d wi’ a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu’ desperation! 

An' young an’ auld come rinnin out, 
An’ hear the sad narration 
He swoor ’twas hilchin Jean M’Craw, 
Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 

Till stop! she trotted thro’ them a’; 
An’ wha was it but Grumphie 
Asteer that night! 

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 
To winn three weehts o^naething; ^ 
But for to meet the Deil her lane. 
She pat but little faith in 
She gies the Herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples. 

To watch, while for the barn she sets, 
In hopes to see Tam Kipples 
That vera night. 


She turns the key, wi’ cannie thraw, 
An’ owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’, 

Syne bauldly in she enters; 

A ratton rattl’d up the wa’, 

An’ she cry’d. Lord preserve herl 
An ran thro’ midden-hole an’ a’, 

An' pray’d wi’ zeal an’ fervor, 

Fu’ fast that night. 

They hoy’t out Will, wi’ sair advice; 
They hecht him some fine braw 
ane; 

It chanced the stack he faddom’t 
thrice ^ 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin; 

He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak. 

For some black, grousome Carlin; 
An’ loot a winr-, an’ dr'w a stroke, 
Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 
Aff’s nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As cantie as a kittlin 
But Och! that night, amang the 
shaws. 

She gat a fearfu’ settlin! 

She thro’ the whins, an’ by the cairn. 
An’ owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds’ lands met at a 
burn,® 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie playa, 
As thro the glen it wimpl’t; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl’t; 
Whyles glitter’d to the nightly rays. 
Wi’ bickering, dancing dazzle; 


* This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn 
and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible ; for there is danger that 
the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take 
that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a 
wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat 
it three times ; and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the 
windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance 
or retinue marking the employment or station in life. R. B. 

* Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-stack, and fathom it three times 
round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of 
your future conjugal yoke-fellow. R. B. 

® You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring or riv¬ 
ulet, where “ three lairds’ lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in 
sight of a fire, and hang your wet "sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and somewhere 
near midnight an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, 
will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry the other side of it. R. B. 




THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


103 


Wliyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Below the spreadin hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens on the brae, 
Between her an’ the moon, 

The Deil, or else an outler Quey, 

Gat up an’ gae a croon: 

Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the 
hool; 

Near lav’rock height she jumpit. 
But mist a fit, an’ in the pool 
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 
Wi’ a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane. 
The luggies three ^ are ranged; 


And ev’ry time great care is taen. 

To see them duly changed: 

Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys 
Sin’ Mar’s-year did desire. 

Because he gat the toom dish thrice. 
He heav’d them on the fire 
In wrath that night. 

Wi’ merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 
I wat they did na weary; 

And unco tales, an’ funnie jokes. 
Their sports were cheap and 
cheary; 

Till butter’d So’ns,2 wi’fragrant lunt, 
Set a’ their gabs a-steerin; 

Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt. 
They parted aff career!n 

Fu’ blythe that night. 


THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


A CANTATA. 


RECITATIVO. 


When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie bird. 
Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast 
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter 
skyte. 

And infant frosts begin to bite. 

In hoory cranreuch drest; 

Ae night, at e’en, a merry core 
O’ randie, gangrel bodies, 

In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore. 
To drink their orra duddies: 

Wi’ quaffing and laughing. 

They rantecLand they sang; 
Wi’ jumping and thumping. 

The verra girdle rang. 


First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags. 
And knapsack a’ in order; 

His doxy lay within his arm, 

Wi’ usquebae and blankets warm, 
She blinket on her sodger; 

An’ aye he gies the towsie drab 
The tither skelpin’ kiss, 

While she held up her greedy gab, 

J ust like an aumous dish; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still. 
Just like a cadger’s whip. 
Then staggering, and swagger¬ 
ing, 

He roar’d this ditty up— 


1 Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul water in the other, and leave .the 
third empty, blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; 
he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or 
wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if the foul, a widow ; if in the empty 
dish, it foretells with equal certainty no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. R. B. 

2 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. R. B. 

* The scene of the “.Jolly Beggars” was the Change house of Poosie Nansie’s in 

Mauchline, a favorite haunt of all kinds of vagrants. It is said that Burns witnessed 
the circumstances which gave rise to the poem in company with his friend James 
Smith. Although the most dramatic of all Burns’s performances, it was not a fav¬ 
orite with his mother and brother, and he never seems to have thought it worthy of 
publication. Mr. (leorge Thomson had heard of its existence, and in 179-3 wrote the 
Poet on the subject. Burns’ replied, “ I have forgot the cantata you allude to, as 







104 


THE JOLLY BEGGARS 


AIR. 

Tune— “ Soldier's Joy." 

1 AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; 

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

My ’prentiship I pass’d where my leader breath’d his last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram, 

I serv’d out my trade when the gallant game was play’d. 
And the Morro^ low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

1 lastly was with Curtis,^ among the floating batt’ries. 

And there I left for witness an arm and a limb: 

Yet let my country need me, with Elliot"* to head me, 

I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 

And now, tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum, 

I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet. 

As when I us’d in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, etc. 


What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; 

When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell, 

I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 


RECITATIVO. 


He ended; and the kebars sheuk, 
Aboon the chorus roar; 

While frighted rattons backward 
leuk. 

And seek the benmost bore: 


A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl’d out encore! 

But up arose the martial chuck, 
And laid the loud uproar. 


1 kept no copy, and, indeed, did not know of its existence ; however, 1 remember that 
none of the songs pleased myself except the last, something about 
“ Courts for cowards were erected 
Churches built to please the priest.” 

It was first published in Glasgow in 1801. 

’ The heights of Abraham, where Wolfe gloriously fell. 

2 “ El Morro, the castle which defends the entrance to the harbor of Santiago, 
or St. Jago, a small island -near the southern shore of Cuba. It is situated on an 
eminence, the abutments being cut out of the limestone rock. Logan's Notes of 
a Tour, etc., Edinburgh, 1838. In 1762 this castle was stormed and taken by the 
British, after which the Havana was surrendered, with spoil to the value of three 
millions.” Chambers. 

3 Captain Curtis, who destroyed the Spanish fioating batteries during the siege 
of Gibraltar. 

* The defender of Gibraltar, George Augustus Elliot, created Lord Heathfteld for 
his services. 





THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


103 


AIR. 

Tune—“ Soldier Laddie:' 

I ONCE was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when, 

And still my delight is in proper young men; 

Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 

No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, etc. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 

To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 

His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 

So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church; 

He ventur’d the soul, I risked the body, 

’Twas then 1 prov’d false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 

The regiment at large for a husband I got; 

From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 

I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair, 

Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair; 

His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy. 

My heart it rejoic’d at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 

And now I have liv’d—I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, etc. 


RECITATIVO. 


Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 
Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie; 
They mind’t na wha the chorus 
teuk, 

Between themselves they were sae 
bizzy; 


At length, wi’ drink and courting 
dizzy, 

He stoitered up an’ made a face; 
Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on 
Grizzy, 

Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave 
grimace. 






io6 


THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


AIR. 

Tune—“ Auld Syr Symon." 

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session; 
He’s there but a ’prentice 1 trow, 
But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school; 

I feat 1 my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck; 

A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft; 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that’s avowedly daft ? 

1 ance was ty’d up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing, 
1 ance was abus’d i' the kirk. 

For towzling a lass i’ my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer; 
There’s ev’n, I’m tauld, i’ the court; 
A tumbler ca’d the Premier. 

Observ’d ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob; 

He rails at our mountebank squad— 
It’s rivalship just i’ the job. 

And now my conclusion I’ll tell. 

For faith I’m confoundedly dry; 
Thft chiel thafs a fool for himsel’. 
Glide Lord, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu’ weel to deck the ster¬ 
ling. 

For monie a pursit she had hooked. 
And had in monie a well been dooked, 
Hei dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa' the waefu’ woodie! 
Wi’ sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highland- 
man 

AIR. 

Tune “ O, an’ ye were dead, G^iidman." 

A Highland lad my love was born. 
The Lawlan’ laws he held in scorn: 


But he still was faithfu’ to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandmaa. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey, my braw John Highland- 
man ! 

Sing, ho, my braw John Highland- 
man ! 

There’s no a lad in a’ the Ian’ 

Was match for my John Highland- 
man. 

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid. 
And gude claymore down by his side. 
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan. 

My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

We rangM a’ from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv’d like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lawlan’ face he feared nane. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

They banish’d him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

But, oh! they catch’d him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast; 
My curse upon them every ane. 
They’ve hang’d my braw John High¬ 
landman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne’er return j 
No comfort but a hearty can. 

When I think on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi’ his fiddle, 

Wha us’d at trysts and fairs to driddle. 
Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 
(He reached nae higher) 
Had hol’t his heartie like a riddle. 
And blawn’t on fire. 

Wi’ hand on haunch, and upward ee, 
He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three. 






THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


107 


Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Bet aff, wi’ Allegretto glee 
His giga solo. 

AIR. 

Tune— “ Whistle owre the lave o^t." 

Let me ryke up to (light that tear, 
And go wi’ me and be my dear. 

And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o’t. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 

And a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o’t. 

At kirns and weddings we’se be 
there. 

And oh ! sae nicely’s we will fare ; 
W’e’ll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o’t. 

I am, etc. 

Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke. 
And at our leisure, when ye like. 
We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t. 

I am, etc. 

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o 
charms. 

And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o’t. 

I am, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy 
Caird, 

As well as poor Gut-scraper; 

He taks the fiddler by the beard. 
And draws a roosty rapier— 

He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth. 
To spit him like pliver. 

Unless he wad from that time forth 
Relinquish her for ever. 


Wi’ ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee 
Upon his hunkers bended. 

And pray'd for grace, wi’ ruefu’ 
face. 

And sae the quarrel ended.' 

But tlio’ his little heart did grieve 
When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve. 
When thus the Caird address’d 
her; 

AIR. 

Tune— “ Clout the Caldron..'^ 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station; 

I’ve travel’d round all Christian 
ground 

In this my occupation; 

I’ve ta’en the gold, I’ve been en¬ 
roll’d 

In many a noble squadron; 

But vain they search’d, when off I 
march’(i 

To go and clout the caldron. 

I’ve ta’en the gold, etc. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d 
imp, 

Wi’ a’ his noise and cap’rin’. 

And tak a share wi’ those that bear 
The budget and the apron ; 

And by that stoup, my faith and 
houp. 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 

If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant, 
May I ne’er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, etc. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing 
fair 

In his embraces sunk. 

Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sail, 
And partly she was drunk. 

Sir Violino, with an air 
That show’d a man o’ spunk. 
Wish’d unison between the pair. 
And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 




io8 


THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 
That play’d a dame a shavie, 

The fiddler rak’d her fore and aft, 
Behiat the chicken cavie. 

Her lord, a wight o’ Homer’s craft, 
Thro’ limpin’ wi’ the spa vie, 

He hirpl’d up, and lap like daft. 
And shor’d them Dainty Davie. 

O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 
As ever Bacchus listed. 

Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss’d it. 

He had nae wish, but—to be glad, 
Nor want but—when he thirsted; 
He hated not but—to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune— “ For a' that, and a' that.'" 

I AM a bard of no regard 
Wi’ gentlefolks, an’ a’ that; 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town 1 draw that. 

CHORUS. 

For a’ that, and a' that. 

And twice as meikle’s a’ that; 
I’ve lost but ane. I’ve twa bellin’, 
I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that. 

I never drank the Muses’ stank, 
Castalia’s burn, an' a’ that; 

But there is streams, and richly 
I'eams, 

My Helicon I ca’ that. 

For a’ that, etc. 

Great love I bear to a’ the fair, 

Their humble slave, an’ a’ that; 
Bift lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a’ that, etc. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi’ mutual love, an’ a that; 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a’ that, etc. 


Their tricks and craft hae put me 
daft. 

They’ve ta’en me in, an’ a’ that; 
But clear your decks, and here's the 
sex 1 

I like the jads for a’ that 
For a’ that, and a’ that, 

And twice as muckle's a’ that. 
My dearest bluid, to do them 
guid. 

They’re welcome till’t, fora 
that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard—and Nansie’s wa s 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 
Ile-echo’d from each mouth , 

They toom’d their pocks, an' pawn’d 
their duds. 

They .scarcely left to co’er their fuds. 
To quench their Iowan drouth 

Then owre again, the jovial thrang 
The poet did request, 

To lowse his pack, an’ wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best, 

He rising, rejoicing, 

Betw^een his twa Deborahs, 

Looks round him, an round them 
Impatient for the cliorus. 

AIR. 

Tune— " Jolly Mortals, fill your glasses." 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring; 
Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected! 

Liberty’s a glorious feast! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the 
priest. 

What is title ? what is treasure! 

What is reputation’s care ? 

If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where! 

A fig, etc, 




THE AULD farmer’s NEW-YEAR SALUTATION. IO9 


With the ready rick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day; 
And at night, in barn or stable. 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, etc. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro’ the country lighter rove ? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

A fig, etc. 


Life is all a variorum ; 

We regard not how it goes, 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 

A fig, etc. 

Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets! 

Here’s to all the wandering train I 
Here’s our ragged brats and callets! 
One and all cry out. Amen! 

A fig, etc. 


THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO 
HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 


A QUID New-Year I wish thee, Mag¬ 
gie! 

Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld bag¬ 
gie: 

Tho’ thou’s how^e-backit, now, an’ 
knaggie. 

I’ve seen the day. 

Thou could hae gane like ony staggie 
Out-owre the lay. 

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, an’ 
crazy. 

An’ thy auld hide's as white’s a daisie, 

I’ve seen thee dappl’t, sleek an’ 
glaizie, 

A bonnie gray: 

He should been tight that daur’t to 
raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank, 

A filly buirdly, steeve, an’ swank. 

An’ set weel down a shapely shank. 
As e’er tread yird; 

An’ could hae flown out-owre a stank. 
Like onie bird. 

It’s now some nine-an’-twenty year. 

Sin’ thou was my guid-father’s meere; 

He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear. 

An’ fifty mark; 

Tho’ it was sma’, ’twas weel-won 
gear, 

An’ thou was stark. 


When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Y’e then was trottin wi’ your minniec 
Tho’ ye was trickle, slee, an’ funnie. 
Ye ne’er was donsie; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an’ cannie, 
An unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc’d wi’ muckle 
pride, 

When ye bure hame my bonnie bride; 
An’ sweet an’ gracefu’ she did ride, 
Wi’ maiden air! 

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide. 
For sic a pair. 

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hoble 
An’ wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble 
For heels an’ win’! 

An’ ran them till they a’ did wauble, 
Far, far bellin’. 

When thou an’ I were young and 
skeigh. 

An’ stable-meals at fairs were driegh, 
How thou wad prance, an’ snore, an’ 
skriegh 

An’ tak the road! 

Town’s-bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
xVn’ ca’t thee mad. 

When thou was corn’t, an’ I was 
mellow. 

We took the road ay like a swallow. 





no THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR SALUTATION. 


At Brooses thou had ne’er a fellow, 
For pith an’ speed; 

But ev’ry tail thou pay’t them hollow, 
Whare’er thou gaed. 

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t, hunter cat¬ 
tle. 

Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brat¬ 
tle ; 

But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their 
mettle. 

An’ gart them whaizle; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
O’ saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan’, 

As e’er in tug or tow was drawn! 

Aft thee an’ I, in aught hours gaun, 
On guid March-weather 
Hae turn’d sax rood beside our ban’, 
For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg’t, an’ fetch’t, an 
fliskit. 

But thy auld tail thou wad hae 
whiskit, 

An’ spread abreed thy weel-fill’d 
briskit, 

Wi’ pith an’ pow’r, 

Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and 
riskit. 

An’ slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an’ snaws were 
deep, 

An’ threaten’d labor back to keep, 

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer; 

I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep 
For that, or simmer. 


In cart or car thou never reestit; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae face’t 
it; 

Thou never lap, an’ sten’t, and 
breastit, 

Then stood to blaw; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 
Thou snoov’t awa. 

My plough is now thy bairn-time a’: 
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’t awa, 

That thou hast nurst; 
They drew me thretteen pund an’ 
twa. 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae 
wrought. 

An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! 

An’ monie an anxious day, I thought 
We wad be beat! 

Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, 
Wi’ something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty serv- 
an’. 

That now perhaps thou’s less de- 
servin, 

An’ thy auld days may end in starvin, 
For my last fou, 

A heapit stimpart, I’ll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; 
We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anitlier; 
Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether 
To some hain’d rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax yourleather, 
Wi’ sma’ fatigue. 




TO A MOUSE. 


Ill 


TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.^ 


Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, timTous 
beastie, 

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 
Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 
Wi’ inurd’ring pattle! 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
Has broken Nature’s social union, 
An’ justifies that ill opinion. 

Which makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born com¬ 
panion, 

An’ fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may 
thieve; 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun 
live! 

A daimen-icker in a thrave 
’S a sma’ request: 

I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, 

And never miss’t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! 
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, 
O’ foggage green! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, 
Baith snell an’ keen! 


Thou saw the fields laid bare and 
waste. 

An’ weary winter comin fast. 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast. 
Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash! the cruel coulter past. 
Out thro’ thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stib- 
ble. 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy 
trouble. 

But house or hald. 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, 
An’ cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 

In proving foresight may be vain, 
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men 
Gang aft a-gley. 

An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain. 
For promis’d joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ mel 
The present only touclieth thee: 

But, Och! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear! 

An’ forward, tlio’ I canna see, 

I guess an’ fear! 


‘ Gilbert Burns states that the “ Verses to the Mouse ” were composed while 
the author was holding the plough. Mr. Chambers relates a pleasant circumstance 
in relation to the event, and the poem to which it gave rise. John Blane, who 
had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterwards, ^ad a Jstinct 
recollection of the turning up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he 
ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and recalled by his master who he 
observed became • thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who 
servants with the familiarity of fellow-laborers, soon after read the Poem f? Bia^e. 
The gaudsman’s rush after the terrified creature may have suggested the lines . 

“ 1 wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 

Wi' murd’ring pattle.” 









II 2 


A WINTER NIGHT. 


A WINTER NIGHT. 


Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'‘er you are. 

That hide the pelting of this pitiless storm / 

Hoto shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides. 

Your loop'd and toindow'd raggedness, defend you, 
From seasons such as these ? 

Shakespeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 

Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; 

When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r, 

Or whirling drift. 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 

Poor Labor sweet in sleep was locked, 

While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths up-choked, 
Wild-eddying swirl. 

Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle, 

I thought me on the ourie cattle. 

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 
O’ winter war. 

And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle. 
Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! 

That, in the merry months o’ spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o’ thee ? 

Whare wilt thou cow’r thy cluttering wing 
An’ close thy e’e ? 

Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d. 

Lone from your savage homes exil’d. 

The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d 
My heart forgets. 

While pityless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 

Dark mufti’d, view’d the dreary plain; 

Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train. 

Rose in my soul. 

When on my ear this plaintive strain. 

Slow, solemn, stole— 

“ Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! 

“And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! 




A WINTER NIGHT. 


II3 


“Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! 

“Not all your rage, as now, united shows 
“More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

“Vengeful malice unrepenting. 

Than heav'n-illumin’d man on brother man bestows! 

“ See stern Oppression’s iron grip, 

“ Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, 

“Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

“Woe, want, and murder o’er a laud! 

“Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale, 

“Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 

How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, 

“The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

“ With all the servile wretches in the rear, 

Looks o’er proud property, extended wide; 

“And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

“ Whose toil upholds the glittTing show, 

“A creature of another kind, 

“Some coarser substance, unretin’d. 

Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 

“ Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe, 

“With lordly Honor’s lofty brow, 

“The pow’rs you proudly own ? 

“Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, 

“ Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim, 

“To bless himself alone! 

“IMark maiden-innocence a prey 
“To love-pretending snares, 

“This boasted honor turns away, 

“Shunning soft pity’s rising sway. 

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray’rs! 

“ Perhaps this hour, in mis’ry’s squalid nest, 

“ She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 

And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast! 

“ Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, 

“ Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

“Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

“ Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 
“Ill-satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call, 

“ Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
“While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall, 

“Chill o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! 

“Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, 

“ Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! 

“Guilt, erring man, relenting view! 

“But shall thy legal rage pursue 

“The wretch, already crushed low, 

“By cruel fortune’s undeserved blow ? 

“ Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress ; 

“A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! ” 





EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 


II4 


I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook off the pouthery snaw, 

And hail’d the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impress’d my mind 
Thro’ all His works abroad, 

The heart benevolent and kind 
The most resembles God. 


EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.i 


While winds frae off Ben-Lomond 
blaw, 

And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw, 
And hing us owre the ingle, 

I set me down, to pass the time, 

And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme. 

In hamely, westlin jingle. 

While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 
Ben to the chimla lug, 

I grudge a wee the Great-folk’s gift. 
That live sae bien an snug; 

I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side; 

But hanker and canker, 

To see their cursed pride. 

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar’d; 

How best o’ chields are whyles in 
want, 

While coofs on countless thousands 
rant, 

And ken na how to wair’t! 

But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head, 
Tho’ we hae little gear. 


January/— [1784J. 

We’re fit to win our daily bread. 

As lang’s we’re hale and fier r 
“Mair spier na, nor fear na,” 
Auld age ne’er mind a feg; 
The last o’t, the warst o’t. 

Is only but to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en. 

When banes are craz’d, and bluid is 
thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress! 

Yet then content w^ould mak us blest; 

Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a 
taste 

Of truest happiness. 

The honest heart that’s free frae a’ 
Intended fraud or guile. 

However fortune kick the ba’, 

Has ay some cause to smile : 

And mind still, you’ll find still, 
A comfort this nae sma’; 

Nae mair then, we’ll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa’. 

What tho’, like commoners ol air, 

We wander out, we know not where, 


* Davie was David Sillar, a member of the Tarbolton Club, and author of a volume 
of poems printed at Kilmarnock in 1789. Gilbert Burns states that the “ Epistle” 
was among the earliest of his brother’s poems. ” It was,” he adds, ” I think, in sum¬ 
mer, 1784, when, in the interval of harder labor, he and I were weeding in the garden 
(kailyard) that he repeated to me the principal part of the epistle. I believe the first 
idea of Robert’s becoming an author was started on this occaion. I w’as much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him 1 w'as of opinion it would bear being printed, 
and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that I thought it at least equal, 
if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay’s epistles; and that the merit of these, 
and much other Scottish poetry, seemed to consist in the knack of the expression ; 
but here there was a stream of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the lan¬ 
guage scarcely seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the 

f )oet; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the conso- 
ations that w'ere in store for him when he should go a-begging. Robert seemed 
very well pleased with my criticism, and we talked of sending it to some magaaine ; 
but as the plan afforded no opportunity of how it would take, the idea was dropped.” 
* Ramsay. R. B. 





EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 


II5 


But either house or hal’ ? 

Yet nature’s charms, the hills and 
woods, 

The sweeping vales, and foaming 
floods 

Are free alike to all. 

In days w'hen daisies deck the ground 
And blackbirds whistle clear, 

With honest joy our hearts will 
bound, 

To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 
We’ll sit and sowth a tune; 
Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t 
And sing’t when we hae done. 

It’s no in titles nor in rank; 

It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank, 
To purchase peace and rest; 

It’s no in making muckle, mair : 

It’s no in books, it’s no in lear, 

To make us truly blest. 

If happiness hae not her seat 
And center in the breast, 

We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang; 
The heart ay’s the part ay. 

That makes us right or wrang ; 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro’ wet an’ 
dry, 

Wi’ never-ceasing toil ; 

Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent as in their way. 
As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God’s creatures they oppress! 

Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid, 
They riot in excess 1 
Baith careless, and fearless, 

Of either heav’n or hell! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It’s a’ an idle tale I 

Then let us cheerfu’ acquiesce; 

JNor make our scanty pleasures less. 
By pining at our state; 

And, even should misfortune come, 

I, here wha sit, hae met wi’ some, 
An’s thankfu’ for them yet. 


They gie the wit of age to youth; 

They let us ken oursel; 

They mak us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 

Tho’ losses, and crosses. 

Be lessons right severe. 
There’s wit there, ye’ll get there, 
Ye’ll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts; 
(To say aught less wad wrang the 
cartes, 

And flatt’ry I detest) 

This life has joys for you and I; 

And joys that riches ne’er could buy; 

And joys the very best. 

There’s a’ the pleasures o’ the heart. 
The lover an’ the frlen’ ; 

Y e hae your Meg, your dearest part. 
And I my darling Jean ! 

It warms me, it charms me. 

To mention but her name; 

It heats me, it beets me, 

And sets me a’ on flame! 

O all ye pow’rs who rule above! 

O Thou, whose very self art love I 
Thou know’st my words sincere! 
The life-blood streaming thro’ my 
heart. 

Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear! 

When heart-corroding care and grief 
Deprive my soul of rest, 

Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 

Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent praj'^’r; 

Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear! 

The smile of love, the friendly tear, 
The sympathetic glow! 

Long since, this woiJd’s thorny ways 
Had number’d out my weary days. 
Had it not been for you! 

Fate still has blest me with a friend. 
In every care and ill; 

And oft a more endearing band, 

A tie more tender still. 

It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 

To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

18—Burns—P 





Ii6 


THE LAMENT. 


O, how that name inspires my style! 
The words come skelpin, rank and 
tile, 

Amaist before I ken! 

The ready measure rins as tine, 

As Phoebus and the famous Nine 
Were glowrin owre my pen. 

My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 


Till ance he’s fairly het; 

And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and 
jimp 

An rin an unco fit 
But lest then, the beast then, 
Should rue his hasty ride. 

I’ll light now, and dight now 
His sweaty, wizen’d hide. 


THE LAMENT.' 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S AMOUR. 

Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself^ 

And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe ' 

Home. 


O THOU pale Orb, that silent shines. 
While care • untroubled mortals 
sleep! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and 
weep! 

With woe I nightly vigils keep. 
Beneath thy wan, unwarming 
beam; 

And mourn,in lamentation deep. 
How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 
The faintly marked, distant hill •. 

I joyless view thy trembling horn, 
Reflected in the gurgling rill. 

My fondly-fluttering heart, be still 1 
Thou busy pow’r. Remembrance, 
cease! 

Ah! must the agonizing thrill 
Forever bar returning peace! 

No idly-feign’d poetic pains. 

My sad, love lorn lamentings 
claim, 

No shepherd’s pipe — Arcadian 
strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and 
tame; 

The plighted faith; the mutual 
flame; 

The oft attested Pow’rs above; 

The promis’d father’s tender name. 
These were the pledges of my love! 


Encircled in her clasping arms. 

How have the raptur’d moments 
flown! 

How have I wish’d for fortune’s 
charms. 

For her dear sake, and hers alone I 

And must I think it! is she gone. 
My secret heart’s exulting boast ? 

And does she heedless hear my groan ? 
And is she ever, ever lost? 

Oh I can she hear so base a heart. 

So lost to honor, lost to truth, 

As from the fondest lover part. 

The plighted husband of her youth I 

Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth! 
Her way may lie thro’ rough dis 
tress! 

Then, who her pangs and pains will 
soothe. 

Her sorrows share, and make them 
less? 


The winged hours that o’er us past, 
Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 
My fondly-treasur’d thoughts em 
ploy’d. 

That breast, how dreary now, and 
void. 

For her too scanty once of room! 
Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d. 
And not a wish to gild the gloom! 


• With reference to the poem Gilbert Burns writes, “ It is scarcely necessary 
to mention that the ‘ Lament ’ was composed on that unfortunate passage of his 
matrimonial history which I have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after 
the first distraction of his feelings had a little subsided. 





DESPONDENCY. 


II7 


The morn that warns th’ approach¬ 
ing day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe: 

I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection’s direful train. 

Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, 
low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 
Sore-harass’d out with care and 
grief. 

My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn 
eye. 

Keep watchings with the nightly 
thief: 

Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief. 
Reigns, haggard • wild in sore 
affright 

Ev’n day, all-bitter brings relief. 
From such a horror - breathing 
night. 


OI thou bright Queen, who o’er th’ 
expanse 

Now highest reign’st, with bound¬ 
less sway! 

Oft has thy silent-marking glance 
Observ’d us, fondly wand’ring, 
stray! 

The time, unheeded, sped away, 
While love’s luxurious pulse beat 
high. 

Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 


Oh! scenes in strong remembrance 
set! 

Scenes, never, never to return 1 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again 1 burn! 

From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn. 
Life’s weary vale I’ll wander 
thro’; 

And hopeless, comfortless. I’ll mourn 
A faithless woman’s broken vow. 


DESPONDENCY 

ANODE 


Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with 
care, 

A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh; 

O life! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I! 

Dim backward as I cast my view, 
What sick’ning scenes appear! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me 
thro’. 

Too justly I may fear! 

Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom; 

My woes here shall close ne’er, 
But with the closing tomb! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life. 

Who, equal to the bustling strife, 
No other view regard! 

Ev’n when the wishM end’s deny’d, 
Yet while the busy means are ply’d. 
They bring their own reward; 


Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight, 
Unfitted with an aim. 

Meet ev’ry sad returning night. 

And joyless morn the same. 

You, bustling, and justling. 
Forget each grief and pain; 

I, listless, yet restless. 

Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the Solitary’s lot. 

Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 
Within his humWe cell. 

The cavern wild with tangling roots. 
Sits o’er his newly-gather’d fruits. 
Beside his crystal well! 

Or, haply, to his ev’ning thought, 
By unfrequented stream. 

The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint-collected dream 
While praising, and raising 
His thoughts to Heav’u on 
high. 

As wand’ring, meand’rmg. 

He views the solemn sky. 





ii8 


WINTER. 


Than I. no lonely hermit plac’d 
Where never human footstep trac’d, 
Less fit to play the part; 

The lucky moment to improve, 

And just to stop, and just to move, 
With self-respecting art: 

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and 
joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 

The Solitary can despise, 

Can want, and yet be blest! 

He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate. 

Whilst I here, must cry here. 

At perfidy ingrate! 


Oh! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s 
maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown! 

How ill exchang’d for riper times, 
To fee the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others, or my own! 

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 
Like linnets in the bush. 

Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish 1 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage! 

The fears all. the tears all. 

Of dim-declining age. 


WINTER. 
A DIRGE. 


The wintry west extends his blast, 
And hail and rain does blaw, 

Or, the stormy north sends driving 
forth. 

The blinding sleet and snaw 
While, tumbling brown, the burn 
comes down. 

And roars frae bank to brae 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 
And pass the heartless day. 

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’er- 
cast,” ‘ 

The joyless winter-day, 

Let others fear, to me more dear 
Thau all the pride of May 


The tempest’s howl, it soothes my 
soul. 

My griefs it seems to join; 

The leafless trees my fancy please, 
Their fate resembles mine! 


Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty 
scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 
Because they are Thy will! 

Then all I want, (Oh! do thou grant 
This one request of mine!) 

Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 


‘ Dr ioung. ft. B, 





THE cotter’s SATURDAY NIGHT. 


119 


THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT ‘ 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN. ESQ., OEf AYR. 


Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys^ and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 

The short and simple annals of the Poor. 

Gray. 


My lov’d, my honor’d, much respected friend! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 

With honest pride, 1 scorn each sellish end; 

My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise; 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 

Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 ween. 


November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; 

The short’ning winter-day is near a close; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 

The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose; 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Moping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 

And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears In view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 

Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 
To meet their Dad, wi’ flicliterin noise an’ glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a’ his weary carking cares beguile, 

An’ makes him quite forget his labor an’ his toil. 


‘Gilbert Burns, in writing of the “Cotter’s Saturday Night,” says, “Robert had 
frequently remarked to me, that he thought there was something peculiarly vener¬ 
able in the phrase, ‘ Let us worship God.^used by a decent sober head of a family 
introducing family worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted 
for the ‘ Cotter’s Saturday Night.’ The hint of the plan and title of the poem were 
taken from Fergusson’s ‘Farmer’s Ingle.’ When Robert had not some pleasure in 
view m which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together 
when the weather was favorable, on the Sunday afternoons (those precious breath¬ 
ing times to the laboring part of the community), and enjoyed such Sundays as 
would make one regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks 
that I first had the pleasure of hearing the author repeat the ‘Cotter’s Saturday 
Night.' I do not recollect to have read or heard anything by which I was more highly 
electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with a peculiar 
ecstasy through my soul,” 





120 


THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. 


Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun’; 

Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town: 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 

In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e, 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown. 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet, 

An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers: 

The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weeks the new; 

The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. 

Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command. 

The younkers a’ are warned to obey, 

An’ mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand, 

Au’ ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play. 

An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

“An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night! 

Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might; 

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright I” 

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, 

Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 

The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; 

Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; 

Weel pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 

The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, 

But blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; 

The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave; 
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. 

O happy love! where love like this is found! 

O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare 1 
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare— 




tHE cotter’s SATURDAY NIGHT. 


I2F 


“ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale. 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 

A wretch I a villain! lost to love and truth I 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? 

Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth I 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil’d ? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o’er their child ? 

Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild I 


But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o’ Scotia’s food; 

The soupe their only Hawkie does afford. 

That ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 

The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell. 

An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca*s it guid; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 

How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell. 

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi‘ serious face. 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace. 

The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride; 

His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an’ bare; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care. 

And “Let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; 

Perhaps Dundee’s wild warbling measures rise, , 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 

Or noble Elgin beets the heav’nward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: 

Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; 

The tickl’d ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. , 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; 

Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie ^ 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; 



122 


THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. 


Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire; 

Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 

How His first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 

And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays: 

Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” 

That thus they all shall meet in future days; 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 

Together hymning their Creator’s praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear; 

While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride. 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 

When men display to congregations wide 
Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart! 

Tlie Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert. 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 

But haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul; 

And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 

The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request, 

That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide; 

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. ^ 

From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad: 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

“ An honest man’s the noblest work of God;” 

And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 

What is a lordling’s pomp v a cumbrous load, 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d! 





MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 


123 


O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content 1 
And, Oh, may heaven their simple lives prevent 
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile; 

Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d Isle. 

O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide 
That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart; 
Who dar’d to, nobly) stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

(The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 

O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert. 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 

Jn bright succession raise, her ornament and guard 1 


MAN WAS MADE TO MOURNA 

A DIRGE. 


When chill November’s surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One ev’ning as 1 wander’d forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 

1 spy’d a man, whose agM step 
Seem’d weary, worn with care; 
His face was furrow’d o’er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand’rest 
thou V 

Began the rev’rend Sage; 

Dost thirst of wealth thy step con¬ 
strain. 

Or youthful pleasure’s rage ? 

Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 
Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn. 
The miseries of Man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors. 
Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 
A haughty lordling’s pride; 


I’ve seen yon weary winter sun 
Twice forty times return; 

And ev’ry time has added proofs, 
That Man was made to mourn. 

O man! while in thy early years. 
How prodigal of time! 

Mis spending all thy precious hours. 
Thy glorious youthful prime! 
Alternate tollies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn; 

Which tenfold force give nature’s 
law, 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 
Or manhood’s active might; 

Man then is useful to his kind, 
Supported in his right. 

But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want. Oh! ill-match’d 
pair! 

Show Man was made to mourn. 


^ Gilbert Burns writes, “Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favorite sentiment of the author. He used to remark to me 
that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a 
man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought 
forward, the elegy “ Man was made to Mourn '• was composed. 






124 


A PRAYER. 


A few seem favorites of fate, 
la pleasure’s lap carest; 

Yet, think not all the rich and great 
Are likewise truly blest. 

But, Oh! what crowds in ev’ry land 
Are wretched and forlorn; 

Thro’ weary life this lesson learn. 
That Man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the num’rous ills 
Inwoven with our frames! 

More pointed still we make ourselves. 
Regret, remorse, and shame! 

And man, whose heaven-erected face 
The smiles of love adorn, 

Man’s inhumanity to man 
Makes countless thousands mourn! 

See yonder poor, o’erlabor’d wight, 
So abject, mean, and vile. 

Who begs a brother of the earth 
To give him leave to toil; 

And see his lordly fellow-worm 
The poor petition spurn. 

Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife 
And helpless offspring mourn. 


A PRAYER, IN TPIE 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear! 

In whose dread presence, ere an hour. 
Perhaps I must appear! 

If I have wander’d in those paths 
Of life I ought to shun; 

As something, loudly in my breast. 
Remonstrates I have done; 

Thou know’st that Thou hast form’d 
me 

With passions wild and strong; 


If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave, 
By nature’s law design’d. 

Why was an independent wish 
E’er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty, or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and pow’r 
To make his fellow mourn ? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son. 
Disturb thy youthful breast; 

This partial view of human-kind 
Is surely not the last! 

The poor, oppressed, honest man. 
Had never, sure, been born. 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn! 

O Death! the poor man’s dearest 
friend. 

The kindest and the best! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
Are laid with thee at rest! 

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 
Fr m pomp and pleasures torn, 
But, Oh! a blest relief to those 
That weary-laden mourn! 


And list’ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come 
short. 

Or frailty stept aside. 

Do Thou, All Good! for such Thou 
art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err’d. 

No other plea I have. 

But, Thou art good; and Goodness 
still 

Delighteth to forgive. 


PROSPECT OF DEATH.i 


‘ In Burns’s memoranda the following passage is prefixed to the prayer; “ A 
)rayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy, or some other 
langerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm. 





LINES. 


125 


STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

"VYhy am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between: 

Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms; 

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 

Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, “ Forgive my foul offense!” 

Fain promise never more to disobey; 

But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue’s way; 

Again in folly’s path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; 

Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter Heavenly mercy’s plan? 

Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

And still the tumult of the raging sea: 

With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine, 

For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line; 

O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine! 


LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND’S HOUSE ONE NIGHT,i 


THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM 
WHERE HE SLEPT. 


O Thou dread Pow’r, who reign’st 
above, 

I know Thou wilt me hear; 

When for this scene of peace andlove, 
I make my pray’r sincere. 


The hoary sire—the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas’d to spare, 
To bless his little filial flock. 

And show what good men are. 


' “The first time,” says Gilbert Burns, “Robert heard the spinnet played upon 
w^as at the house of Dr. Laurie, then minister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favor of his son. Dr. Laurie has several daughters : 
one of them played: the father and mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the Poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
scene for our Poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a 
poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept.” Mr. Cham¬ 
bers states that the morning after the dance Burns did not make his appearance at 
the breakfast table at the usual hour. Dr. Laurie’s son went to inquire for him, and 
met him on the stair. The young man asked Burns if he had slept well. “ Not well,” 
was the reply ; “ the fact is, 1 have been praying half the night. If you go up to my 
room, you will find my prayer on the table.” 






126 THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 


She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O, bless her with a mother’s joys, 
But spare a mother’s tears! 


Their hope, their stay, their darling 
youth, 

In manhood’s dawning blush; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 
Up to a parent’s wish. 


The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
With earnest tears I pray, 

Thou know’st the snares on ev’ry 
hand. 

Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that 
coast 

O’er life’s rough ocean driven, 

May they rejoice, no wand’rer lost, 
i A family in Heaven! 


THE FIRST PSALM. 


The man, in life wherever plac’d. 
Hath happiness in store. 

Who walks not in the wicked’s way. 
Nor learns their guilty lore: 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow; 


The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble tost. 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why? that God the good adore 
Hath giv’n them peace and rest. 
But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne’er be truly blest. 


A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.i 


O Thou great Being! what Thou art 
Surpasses me to know; 

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 
Are all Th}'- works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands. 
All wretched and distrest; 

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 
Obey Thy high behest. 


Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 
From cruelty or wrath! 

O, free my weary eyes from tears, 
Or close them fast in death! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design; 

Then, man my soul with firm resolves 
To bear and not repine! 


THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 


O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 
Of all the human race! 

Whose strong right hand has ever 
been 

Their stay and dwelling-place! 


Before the mountains heav’d their 
heads 

Beneath Thy forming hand. 

Before this ponderous globe itself 
Arose at Thy command; 


1 In Burns’s memoranda the poem appears with the following sentences prefixed : 
“ There was a certain period of my life tnat my spirit was broke by repeated losses 
and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin or my fortune. 
My body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful disorder, a hypochondria or confirm¬ 
ed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection or which makes me yet 
shudder, I hung my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in 
one of which 1 composed the following.” 







TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 


127 


That pow’r which rais’d and still up¬ 
holds 

This universal frame, 

From countless, unbeginning time 
Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 
Which seem to us so vast, 

Appear no more before Thy sight 
Than yesterday that’s past. 

Thou giv’st the word; Thy creature, 
man, 

Is to existence brought; 


Again Thou say’st “Ye sons of men, 
Return ye into naught! ” 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 
In everlasting sleep; 

As with a flood Thou tak’st them off 
With overwhelming sweep; 

They flourish like the morning 
flow’r. 

In beauty’s pride array’d; 

But long ere night cut down it lies 
All wither’d and decay’d. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 


ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. 


Wee, modest, crimson-tippM flow’r, 
Thou’s met me in an evil hour; 

For I maun crush amang the stoure 
Thy slender stem. 

To spare thee now is past my pow’r, 
Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet. 

The bonnie Lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet! 

Wi’ sprecklVl breast. 
When upward-springing, blythe, to 
greet 

The purpling east- 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
U pon thy early, humble birth; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm. 

Scarce rear’d above the parent-earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens 
yield. 

High sheltering woods and wa’s maun 
shield, 

But thou, beneath the random bield 
O’ clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 
Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread. 


Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise; 

But now the share uptears thy bed. 
And low thou lies! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade! 

By love’s simplicity betray’d, 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life’s rough ocean luckless 
starr’d! 

Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore. 

Till billows rage, and gales blow 
hard, 

And whelm him o’erl 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n, 
Who long with wants and woes has 
striv’n. 

By human pride or cunning driv’n 
To mis’ry’s brink. 

Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but 
Heav’n, 

He, ruin’d, sink! 

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s 
fate. 

That fate is thine—no distant date; 





128 


EPISTLE TO A YOUND FRIEND. 


Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, 
elate, 

Full on thy bloom. 


Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s 
weight. 

Shall be thy doom! 


TO RUIN. 


All hail ! inexorable lord! 

At whose destruction-breathing 
word 

The mightiest empires fall! 

Thy cruel, woe delighted train, 

The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all! 

With stern-resolv’d, despairing eye, 
I see each aimed dart; 

For one has cut my dearest tie. 

And quivers in my heart. 

Then low’ring, and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread; 
Tho’ thick’ning and black’ning 
Round my devoted head. 


And, thou grim pow’r, by life ab- 
horr’d. 

While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch’s pray’r! 

No more I shrink appall’d, afraid, 

I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care! 

When shall my soul, in silent peace, 
Resign life’s joyless day; 

My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold-mold’ring in the clay? 

No fear more, no tear more. 

To stain my lifeless face. 
Enclasped and grasped 
Within oily cold embrace! 


TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE’S POEMS, 

FOR A NEW year’s GIFT, JANUARY 1 , 1787 . 


Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv’n. 
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav’n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 
The infant year to hail; 


I send you more than India boasts, 
In Edwin’s simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg’d, perhaps too true; 

But may, dear Maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you! 


EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 


MAY, 

1 LANG hae thought, my youthfu’ 
friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end 
Then just a kind memento; 

But how the subject theme may 
gang, 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps, it may turn out a sang. 
Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad, 
And, Andrew dear, believe me. 


1786 . 

Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad, 
And muckle they may grieve ye: 
For care and trouble set your thought, 
Ev’n when your end’s attained; 
And a’ your views may come to 
naught. 

Where ev’ry nerve is strained. 

I’ll no say, men are villains a’; 

The real, harden’d wicked, 

Wha hae nae check but human law. 
Are to a few restricked; 


’ This poem was addressed to Andrew Aitken, son of the poet’s patron, Robert 
Aitken, to whom the “Cotter’s Saturday Night” was dedicated. Mr. Chambers 
states that Mr. Niven of Kilbride always alleged that the “ Epistle ” was originallv 
addressed to him. & j' 







ON A SCOTCH BARD. 


But Och ! mankind arc unco weak, 
An’ little to be trusted; 

If self the wavering balance shake, 
It’s rarely right adjusted! 

Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife, 
Their fate we should na censure. 

For still th’ important end of life 
They equally may answer; • 

A man may hae an honest heart, 
Tho’ poortith hourly stare him; 

A man may tak a neebor’s part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han’ your story tell. 
When wi’ a bosom crony; 

But still keep something to yoursel 
Ye scarcely tell to ony; 

Conceal yoursel as weeks ye can 
Frae critical dissection; 

But keek thro’ ev’ry other man, 

Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o’ well-plac’d love. 
Luxuriantly indulge it; 

But never tempt th’ illicit rove, 

Tho’ naething should divulge it; 

I wave the quantum o’ the sin. 

The hazard o’ concealing; 

But Och 1 it hardens a’ within. 

And petrifies the feeling 1 

To catch dame Fortune’s golden 
smile 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 

And gather gear by ev’ry wile 
That’s justify’d by honor ; 

Not for to hide it in a hedge. 

Not for a train attendant ; 

But for the glorious privilege 
Of being independent. 


129 


The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip, 
To baud the wretch in order ; 

But where ye feel your honor grip, 
Let that aye be your border ; 

Its slightest touches, instant pause— 
Debar a’ side pretenses ; 

And resolutely keep its laws. 
Uncaring consequences. 

The great Creator to revere. 

Must sure become the creature; 
But still the preaching cant for¬ 
bear. 

And ev’n the rigid feature: 

Yet ne’er with wits profane to range. 
Be complaisance extended; 

An Atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange 
For Deity offended! 

When ranting round in pleasure’s 
ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 

Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded; 

But when on life we’re tempest- 
driv’n, 

A conscience but a canker— 

A correspondence fix’d wd’ Heaven 
Is sure a noble anchor! 

Adieu, dear, amiable Youth! 

Your heart can ne’er be wanting! 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
Erect your brow undaunting! 

In ploughman phrase, “God send 
you speed,” 

Still daily to grow wiser; 

And may ye better reck the rede. 
Than ever did th’ Adviser! 


ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 


A’ YE wha live by sowps o’ drink, 
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A’ ye wha live an’ never think. 

Come mourn wi' me! 
Our billie’s gi’en us a jink. 

An’ owre the sea. 


Lament him a’ ye rantin core, 

Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar, 
In’ social key; 

For now he’s taen anither shore. 
An’ owre the sea! 


^ Burns when meditating emigration to the "West Indies was in gloomy mood 
enough, and in this ode, although in it he mocks at fortune, there are not wanting 
touches of bitterness, which are all the more effective from the prevalent light¬ 
ness and gaiety by which they are surrounded. 







130 


TO A HAGGIS. 


The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him. 
The widows, wives, an’ a’ may bless 
him, 

Wi’ tearfu’ e’e; 

For weel I wat they’ll sairly miss him 
That’s owre the sea! 


To tremble under Fortune’s cum< 
mock. 

On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock, 
Wi’ his proud, independent stomach, 
Could ill agree; 

So, row’t his hurdies in a hammock, 
An’ owre the sea. 


O Fortune, they hae room to grum¬ 
ble! 

Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy 
bummle, 

Wha can do nought but fyke an’ 
fumble, 

’Twad been nae plea; 

But he was gleg as ony wumble, 
That’s owre the seal 


Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An’ stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear: 
’Twill mak her poor auld heart, 1 
fear. 

In flinders flee; 

He was her Laureat monie a year 
That’s owre the sea! 

He saw misfortune’s cauld nor-west 
J.ang mustering up a bitter blast; 

A jillet brak his heart at last, 

Ill may she be! 

So, took a berth afore the mast, 

An’ owre the sea. 


He ne’er was gi’en to great mis¬ 
guidin’. 

Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; 
AVi’ him it ne’er was under hidin'. 

He dealt it free: 

The Muse was a’ that he took pride 
in. 

That’s owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 

An’ hap him in a cozie biel; 

Ye’ll find him ay’ a dainty chief. 

And fu’ o’ glee. 

He wad na wrang’d the vera deil. 
That’s owre the sea. 

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing 
billie! 

Your native soil was right ill-willie; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Now bonnilie! 

I’ll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 
Tho’ owre the sea! 


TO A HAGGIS. 


Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face. 
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! 
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, orthairm; 
AVeel are ye wordy o’ a grace 
As lang’s my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 
In time o’ need, 

AYliile thro' your pores the dews 
distill 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labor dight. 

An cut you up wi ready slight. 


Trenching your gushing entrails 
bright 

Like onie ditch; 

And then, O what a glorious sight, 
AYarm-reekin, rich! 

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ 
strive, 

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve 
Are bent like drums; 

Then auld guidman, maist like to 
rive, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o’er his French ragout, 

Or olio that wad staw a sow. 





A DEDICATION. 


I3I 


Or fricassee wad mak her spew 
Wi’ perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ 
view 

On sic a dinner! 

Poor devil! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither’d rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 
His nieve a nit; 

Thro’ bloody Hood or field to dash, 

O how unfit! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 

The trembling earth resounds his 
tread, 


Clap in his walie nieve a blade. 

He’ll mak it whissle; 

An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will 
sned. 

Like taps o’ thrissle. 

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your 
care. 

And dish them out their bill o’ 
fare, 

Auld Scotland wants nae stinking 
ware 

That jaiips in luggies; 

But, if you want her gratefu’ prayer, 
Gie her a Haggis! 


A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQT 


Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 

A fleechin, fleth’rin Dedication, 

To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid. 
An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid, 
Because ye’re sirnam’d like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race; 

Then when I’m tir’d—and sae are ye, 
Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie. 

Set up a face, how I stop short. 

For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do—maun do. Sir, wi’ 
them wha 

Maun please the great folk for a 
wame-fou; 

For me 1 sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can b^eg; 
Sae I shall say, an’ that’s nae fiatt’rin. 
It’s just sic Poet an’ sic Patron, 

The Poet, some guid angel help 
him. 

Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp 
him! 

He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet, 
But only—he’s no just begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie 
me, 

I winna lie, come what will o’ me). 


On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be. 
He’s just—nae better than he should 
be, 

I readily and freely grant. 

He downa see a poor man want; 
What’s no his ain he winna tak it. 
What ance he says he winna break it; 
Aught he can lend he’ll not refus’t. 
Till aft his guidness is abus’d ; 

And rascals Avhyles that do him 
wrang, 

Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a* 
that ; 

Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; 
It’s naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu’, corrupt nature: 
Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works, 
’Mang black Gentoos and pagan 
Turks, 

Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 

Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 

That he’s the poor man’s friend in 
need. 

The gentleman in word and deed, 

It’s no thro’ terror of damnation ; 

It’s just a carnal inclination. 


* The dedication to Gavin Hamilton, the poet’s friend and patron, did not, as might 
have been expected, open the volume published at Kilmamocii, It, however, finds 
its place in the body of the work. 





132 


A DEDICATION. 


Morality, thou deadly bane, 

Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain! 
Vain is his hope, whase stay and 
trust is 

In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No—stretch a point to catch a 
plack; 

Abuse a brother to his back; 

Steal thro’ the winnock frae a whore, 
But point the rake that taks the door; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane. 
And hand their noses to the grun- 
stane. 

Ply ev’ry art, o’ legal thieving ; 

No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half- 
mile graces, 

Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, 
wry faces; 

Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan. 
And damn a’ parties but your own; 
I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of 
Calvin, 

For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! 
Ye sons of heresy aiid error. 

Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking 
terror ! 

When vengeance draws the sword in 
wrath, 

And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping be¬ 
som. 

Just frets till Heav’n commission 
gies him; 

While o’er the harp pale mis’ry' 
moans. 

And. strikes the ever-deep’ning 
tones. 

Still louder shrieks, and heavier 
groans! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digres¬ 
sion, 

I maist forgat my Dedication ; 

But when divinity comes ’cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see ’twas nae daft va¬ 
por. 

But I maturely thought it proper, 


When a’ my works I did review, 

To dedicate them. Sir, to You: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 

I thought them something like your- 
sel. 

Then patronize them wi’ your 
favor. 

And your petitioner shall ever— 

I had amaist said, ever pray ■ 

But that’s a word I need na say, 

For prayin I hae little skill o’t ; 

I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched 
ill o’t ; 

But I’se repeat each poor man’s 
pray’r. 

That kens or hears about you. Sir.— 

“May ne’er misfortune’s gowling 
bark 

Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the 
Clerk! 

May ne’er his gen’rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen’rous spirit smart! 
May Kennedy’s far-honor’d name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 

Are frae their nuptial labors risen: 
Five bonnie lasses round their 
table. 

And seven braw fellows, stout an’ 
able 

To serve their King and Country 
weel 

By word, or pen, or pointed steel! 
May health and peace, with mutual 
rays. 

Shine on the evening o’ his days; 
Till his wee, curlie John’s ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall j 
flow, ^ 

The last, sad, mournful rites be- j 
stow! ” J 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi’ complimentary effusion 
But whilst your wishes and en¬ 
deavors 

Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and 
favors, 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fer¬ 
vent, 

Your much indebted, humble ser¬ 
vant. 





TO A LOUSE. 


133 


But if (which Pow’rs above pre¬ 
vent) 

That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances. 

By sad mistakes, and black mis 
chances. 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures 
fly him. 

Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your humble servant then no more; 


For who would humbly serve the 
poor ? 

But, by a poor man’s hopes in Heav’n! 
While recollection’s pow’r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life. 

The victim sad of fortune’s strife, 

I, thro’ the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognize my Master dear. 

If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand—my Friend 
and Brother! 


TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET, 
AT CHURCH. 


Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowliu 
ferlie! 

Your impudence protects you sairly . 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 
Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sin¬ 
ner. 

How dare ye set your fit upon her, 
Sae fine a lady! ^ 

Gae somewhere else, and seek your 
dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith. in some beggar’s liaffet squat- 
tie; 

There ye may creep, and sprawl, 
and sprattle 

Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle. 

In shoals and nations; 
Whare horn nor bane ne’er dare un 
settle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand ye there, ye’re onto’ sight. 
Below the fatt’rels, snug an’ tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right 
Till ye’ve got on it. 


The vera tapmost, tow’ring height 
O’ Miss’s bonnet. 

My sooth! right bauld ye set your 
nose out. 

As plump and gray as onie grozet: 

O for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum. 

I’d gie you sic a hearty doze o’t. 

Wad dress yourdrodduml 

I wad na been surpris’d to spy 
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy. 

On’s wyliecoat ; 

But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie, 

How daur ye do’t ? 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 

An’ set your beauties a’ abread! 

Ye little ken what cursed speed 
The blastie’s makin! 

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. 
Are notice takin! 

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 
And foolish notion; 

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e 
us. 

And ev’n Devotion! 


‘ The “ lady '* referred to ia this line was, Mr. Chambers informs us, a village 
belle. He adds that her name was well known in Mauchline. 








134 


ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH, 


ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.* 


Edina ! Scotia’s darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch’s 
feet 

Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs! 
From marking wildly scatter'd 
flow’rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr 1 stray’d, 
And singing, lone, the ling’ring 
hours, 

I shelter in thy honor’d shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden 
tide, 

As busy Trade his labors plies; 
There Architecture’s noble pride 
Bids elegance and splendor rise; 
Here Justice, from her native skies. 
High wields her balance and her 
rod; 

There Learning with his eagle eyes. 
Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral 
mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow’s wail, 

Or modest merit’s silent claim • 
And never may their sources fail! 
And never envy blot their name! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks 
adorn, 

Gay as. the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of 
joy! 

Fair Burnet^ strikes th’ adoring eye. 
Heaven’s beauties on my fancy 
shine; 

1 see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine! 


There watching high the least alarms, 
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams 
afar; 

Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms. 
And mark’d with many a seamy 
scar. 

The pond’rous wall and massy bar. 
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock. 

Have oft withstood assailing war. 
And oft repell’d the invader’s 
shock. 

With awestruck thought, and pity¬ 
ing tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 

Where Scotia’s kings of other years. 
Fam’d heroes, had their royal 
home ■ 

Alas, how chang’d the times to come! 
Their royal name low in the dust I 

Their hapless race wild-wand’ring 
roam! 

Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’t was just I 

Wild beats my heart, to trace your 
steps. 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore. 

Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps 
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore. 

Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have left their 
shed. 

And fac’d grim danger’s loudest roar. 
Bold-following where your fathers 
led! 

Edina I Scotia’s darling seat 1 
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, 

Where once beneath a monarch’s feet 
Sat Legislation's sov’reign pow’rs! 

From marking wildly-scatter’d 
flow’rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d. 

And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, 
I shelter in thy honor’d shade. 


‘ This Address was wi’itten ia Edinburgh in 1786 

» “ Fair Burnet ” was the daughter o£ Lord Monboddo. Burns’s admiration tor 
her was intense. 








EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 


135 


EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

April 1, 1785. 


While briers an’ woodbines budding 
green, 

An* paitricks scraiciiin loud at e’en, 
An’ morning poussie whiddin seen. 
Inspire my Muse, 

This freedom, in an unknown frien’, 
I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-een we had a rockin, 
Toca’ the crack and weave our stock- 
in ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin, 
Ye need na’ doubt; 

At length we had a hearty yokin 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 
To some sweet wife . 

It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the 
breast, 

A’ to the life. 

I’ve scarce heard aught describ’d sae 
weel, 

What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; 
Thought 1, “Can this be Pope, or 
Steele, 

Or Beattie’s wark!” 

They told me ’twas an odd kind chiel 
About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t. 

And sae about him there I spier’t; 
Then a’ that ken’d him round declar’d 
He had ingine. 

That nane excell’d it, few cam 
near’t, 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale, 

An' either douce or merry tale. 

Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made him- 
sel, 


Or witty catches, 

’Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had tew matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho’ 1 should pawn my pleugh and 
graith. 

Or die a cadger pownie’s death, 

At some dyke-back, 

A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith 
To hear your crack. 

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 

1 to the crambo jingle fell, 

Tho’ rude an' r ugh, 

Yet crooning to a body’s sel, 

Does weel enough. 

1 am nae Poet, in a sense. 

But just a Rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' iiae to learning nae pretense. 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene’er my Muse does on me 
glance, 

1 jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose. 
And say, “How can you e’er pro¬ 
pose. 

You wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 
To mak a sang ? ” 

But, by your leaves, my learned foes. 
Y’'e're maybe wrang. 

What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an’ 
stools; 

If honest nature made you fools, 

Whatsairsyourgrammars! 
Ye’d better ta’en up spades and 
shools. 

Or knappin-hammers. 


1 “The Epistle to John Lapraik was produced,” says Gilbert Burns, “exactly on 
the occasion described by the author. It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik’s song, 
beffinning, ‘ When 1 upon thy bosom lean,’ was sung, and we were informed who was 
♦-he author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik : and his second 
was in reply to his answer.’’ 






EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 


136 

A set o’ dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college 
classes! 

They gang in stirks, and come out 
asses, 

Plain truth to speak; 

An’ syne they think to climb Par- 
' nassus 

By dint o’ Greek! 

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire, 
That’s a’ the learning I desire; 

Then tho’ 1 drudge thro’ dub an’ mire 
At pleugh or cart. 

My Muse, though hamely in attire. 
May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan’s glee. 

Or Fergusson’s, the bauld an’ slee, 

Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be. 
If 1 can hit it! 

That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If 1 could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

Pse no insist, 

But gif ye want ae friend that’s true. 
Pm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel, 

As ill 1 like my fauts to tell; 

But friends, an’ folks that wdsh me 
well 

They sometimes roose me; 
Tho’ 1 maun own, as monie still 
As far abuse me. 

There’s ae wee faut they whyles lay 
to me, 

i like the lasses—Gude forgie me! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae 
me. 


At dance or fair; 

Maybe some ither thing they gie me 
They weel can spare. 

ButMauchlinerace, orMauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there; 
We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, 
If we forgather, 

An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin-ware 
Wi’ ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we’se gar him 
clatter, 

An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water; 
Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our 
w hitter, 

To cheer our heart, 

An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 

Awa’ ye selfish, warly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, an’ 
grace, 

Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give 
place 

To catch-the-plack I 
1 dinna like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness 
warms. 

Who hold your being on the terms, 
“Each aid the others,” 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 
My friends, my brothers! 

But to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 
Who am, most fervent. 
While 1 can either sing, or whissle. 
Your friend and servant. 


TO THE SAME. 

April 12 , 1785 . 

While new-ca’d kye rowte at the I To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 
stake. i For his kind letter. 

An’ pownies reek in pleugh or braik. 

This hour on e’enin’s edge I take, Forjesket sair, with weary legs. 

To own I’m debtor, Rattlin the corn out-owre*the rigs. 







EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 


137 


Or dealing thro’ amang the naigs 
Their ten-hours’ bite, 

My aw kart Muse sair pleads and begs, 
I would na write. 

The tapetless, ramfeezl’d hizzie, 
She’s saft at best, and something lazy. 
Quo' she, “Ye ken, we’ve been sae 
busy. 

This month an’ mair, 

That trouth my head is grown quite 
dizzie. 

An’ something sair.” 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 

*' Conscience,” says I, “Ye thowless 
jad! 

I’ll write, an that a hearty blaud, 
This vera night. 

So dtnna ye affront your trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

“ Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ 
hearts, 

Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes, 
Boose you sae weel for your deserts, 
lu terms sae friendly. 

Yet ye’ll neglect toshaw your parts 
An’ thank him kindly!’.’ , 

Sae I gat paper in a blink. 

An’ down gaed stumpie in the ink. 
Quoth I. “ Before I sleep a wink, 

1 vow I’ll close it: 

An it ye winna mak it clink, 

By Jove I’ll prose it! ” 

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, orbaith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly 
neither, 

Let time mak proof; 

But I shall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne’er grudge an’ 
carp 

Tho’ fortune use you hard and sharp: 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 
Wi’ gleesome touch! 

N^e er mind how fortune waft an’ 
warp 

She’s but a bitch. 


She’s gien me monie a jirt an’ fleg, 
Sin’ 1 could striddle owre a rig, 

But, by the Lord, tho’ I should beg 
Wi’ lyart pow, 

I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’shake my leg. 
As lang’s 1 dow ! 

Now comes the sax an’ twentieth 
simmer, 

I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer. 
Still persecuted by the limmer 
Frae year to year : 

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behind a kist to lie an’ sklent. 

Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent per cent; 

An’ mucklc wame. 

In some bit Brugh to represent 
A Bailie’s name? 

Or is’t the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi’ ruffl’d sark an’ glancing cane. 
What thinks himsel nae sheep-shank 
bane. 

But lordly stalks. 

While caps and bonnets aff are taen. 
As by he walks? 

“ O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! 
Gie me o’ wit an’ sense a lift. 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 
Thro’ Scotland wide; 

Wi’ cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a’ their pride! ” 

Were this the charter of our state, 

“ On pain o’ hell be rich an’ great,” 
Damnation then would be our fate. 
Beyond remead; 

But, thanks to Heaven I that’s no the 
gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran. 
When first the human race began, 

“ The social, friendly, honest man, 
Whate’er he be, 

’Tis he fulfils great nature’s plan. 
And none but he! ” 

O mandate glorious and divine! 
followers of the ragged Nine, 




138 


TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 


Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may 
shine 

In glorious light, 

While sordid sons of Mammon’s line 
Are dark as night. 

Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, 
an’ growl. 

Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul 
May in some future carcass howl. 
The forest’s fright; 


Or in some day-detesting owl 
May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an’ 
joys 

In some mild sphere. 

Still closer knit in friendship’s 
ties 

Each passing year! 


TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 

OCHILTREE. May, 1785. 


I GAT your letter, winsome Willie; 
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you braw- 
lie; 

Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, 

An’ unco vain, 

Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 
Your fiatterin strain. 

But I’se believe ye kindly mean it, 

I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
On my poor Music; 
Tho*in sic phrasin terms ye’ve penn’d 
it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 

Should 1 but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi’ Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o’ fame; 

Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts 
Ill suited law's dry musty arts! 

My curse upon your whunstane 
hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry! 

The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes 
Wad stow’d his pantry!) 

Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, 
Oi lasses gie my heart a screed, 

As whiles they’re like to be my dead, 
(O sad disease!) 

1 kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 


Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain, 
She’s gotten Poets o’ her ain. 

Chiefs wha their chanters winna hain, 
But tune their lays, 

Till echoes a’ resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae Poet thought her worth his 
while. 

To set her name in measur’d style; 
She lay like some unkend-of isle, 
Beside New Holland, 

Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 
Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift a boon ; 
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to mony a tune, 
Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon, 
Naebody sings. 

Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line! 
But, Willie, set your fif to mine. 

An’ cock your crest. 
We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies 
shine 

U p wi’ the best. 

We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells. 
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather 
bells. 

Her banks an’ braes, her dens an’ 
dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 


* Williarri Simpson was the schoolmaster of Ochiltree parish. 






TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 


139 


Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae Southron billies. 

At Wallace’ name, what Scottish 
blood 

But boils up in a spring-tide flood! 
Oft have our tearless fathers strode 
By Wallace’ side, 

Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod. 
Or glorious died. 

O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ 
woods, 

When lintwhites chant amang the 
buds. 

And jinkin hares, in amorous whids. 
Their loves enjoy, 

While thro’ the braes the cushat 
croods 

Wi’ wailfu’ cry! 

Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro’ the naked 
tree, 

Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
Are hoary gray; 

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 
Dark’ning the day 1 

O Nature I a’ thy shows an’ forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms I 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 
Wi’ life an’ light. 

Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 
The lang, dark night! 

The muse, nae Poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel he learn’d to wander, 
Adowu some trottin burn’s meander, 
An’ no think lang; 

O sweet, to stray an’ pensive ponder 
A heart-felt sang! 

The warly race may drudge an’ drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ 
strive. 

Let me fair Nature’s face descrive. 
And I, wi’ pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
Bum owre their treasure 

Farewell, “ my rhyme-composing 
brither !” 

We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to 
ither: 

Now let us lay our heads thegither. 


In love fraternal: 

May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend, infernal! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls an’ 
taxes; 

While moorlan’ herds like guid, fat 
braxies; 

While Terra Firma, on her axis. 
Diurnal turns. 

Count on a friend, in faith an’ prac¬ 
tice. 

In Robert Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT.^ 

My memory’s no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean. 

Ye bade me write you what they 
mean 

By this New-Light, 
’Bout which our herds sae aft hae 
been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but 
callans 

At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents. 
They took nae pains their speech to 
balance. 

Or rules to gie. 

But spak their thoughts in plain, 
braid Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In tliae auld times, they thought the 
moon. 

Just like a sark, or pair ’o shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 
Gaed past their viewin. 
An’ shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed; 

It ne’er cam i’, their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it. 
An’ ca’d it wrang; 

An’ muckle din there was about it. 
Both loud an’ lang. 

‘ The postscript to the foregoing “ Epis¬ 
tle ” may be coi^siderecl as a pendant to 
“ The Twa Herds,” which was making a 
noise in Ayrshire at the time. 

1'8—Burns—G 





140 


TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 


Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the 
beuk, 

Wad threap auld folk the thing mis- 
teuk; 

For ’twas the auld moon turn'd 
a neuk, 

An out o’ sight, 

An’ backlins-comin, to the leuk. 

She grew mair bright. 

This w^as deny’d, it was affirm’d; 

The herds an’ hissels were alarm’d : i 

The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ 
storm’d. 

That beardless laddies 

Should think they better were in¬ 
form’d 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; 

Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ 
nicks; 

An’ monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi’ hearty cruut , 

An’ some, to learn them for their 
tricks. 

Were hang’d an’ brunt. 

This game was play’d in monie lands, 

An’ Auld-light caddies bure sic hand.s, 

That, faith, the youngsters took the 
sands; 

Wi’ nimble shanks. 

The lairds forbad, by strict com¬ 
mands, 

Sic bluldy pranks. 

But New-light herds gat sic a cowe, 

Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an- 
stowe. 

Till now amaist on ev’ry knowe 


Ye’ll find ane plac’d , 

An’ some, their New-light fair avow. 
Just quite barefac’d. 

Nae doubt the Auld-light flocks are 
bleatin, 

Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ 
sweatin; 

Myself, I’ve even seen them greetin 
Wi’ girnin spite. 

To hear the moon sae sadly He’d on 
By word an’ write. 

But shortly they will cowe the 
louns! 

Some Auld light herds in neebor 
towms 

Are mind’t, in things they call bal¬ 
loons 

To tak a flight, 

An’ stay ae month amang the moons. 
An’ see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them; 

An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to 
lea’e them, 

The hindmost shaird. they’ll fetch it 
wi’ them. 

Just i’ their pouch. 

An’ when the New-light billies see 
them, 

I think they’ll crouch! 

Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter 

Is naething but a “ moonshine mat 
ter ”; 

But tho’ dull-prose folk Latin splat¬ 
ter 

In logic tulzie, 

1 hope, we Bardies ken some better 
Than mind sic brulzie. 





EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 


I4I 


EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,^ 


ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 


O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Ran- 
kine, 

The wale o’ cocks for fnn an’ drinkiu! 

There’s monie godlyf oiks are thinkin. 
Your dreams ^ an’ tricks 

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 
Straught to auld Nick’s. 

Ye hae sae monie cracks an’ cants, 

And in 3 'our wicked, druken rants. 

Ye make a devil o’ the saunts. 

An’ fill them fou; 

And then their failings, flaws, an’ 
wants. 

Are a’ seen thro’. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! 

That holy robe, O dinua tear it! 

Spare’t for their sakes wha aften 
wear it. 

The lads in black; 

But your curst wit, when it comes 
near it, 

Rives’t aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re 
skaithing. 

It’s lust the blue-gown badge an’ 
claithing '' 

O’ saunts; tak that, ye lea’e them 
naithing 

To ken them by, 

Frae ony unregenerate heathen 
Like you or I. 


I’ve sent you here some rhyming 
ware, 

A’ that I bargain’d for, an’ mair; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect. 

Yon sang,3 ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care, 
And no neglect. 

Tho’, faith, sma’ heart hae I to sing! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her 
wing! 

I’ve play’d mysel a bounie spring, 
An’ danc’d my fill I 
I’d better gaeu an’ sair’t the king 
At Bunker’s Hill. 

’Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi’ the gun. 

An’ brought a paitrick to the grun, 
A bounie hen. 

And, as the twilight was begun. 
Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor, wee thing, was little hurt; 
I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne’er thinkin they wad fash me for’t; 

But, Deil-ma-care! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 
The hale affair. 

Some auld, us’d hands had ta’en a 
note. 

That sic a hen had got a shot; 

I was suspected for the plot; 

1 scorn’d to lie; 


’ John Rankine lived at Adam-hill, in Ayrshire ; he was a man of much humor, 
and was one of Burns’s earliest friends. 

2 A certain humorous dream of his was then making noise in the country-side. 
R. B. Of this dream the substance is thus related by Allan Cunningham. ^‘Lord 

K-was in the habit of calling his familiar acquaintances ‘brutes’or ‘damned 

brutes.’ One day meeting Rankine, his lordship said, ‘ Brute, are ye dumb ? have 
ye no queer story to tell us ? ’ ‘1 have nae story,’ said Rankine, ‘ but last night I had 
an odd dream.’ ‘ Out with it, by all means,’said the other. ‘ Aweel, ye see,’said Ran¬ 
kine, ‘ I dreamed that I was dead, and that for keeping other than good company on 
earth, I was damned. When I knocked at hell-door, wha should open it but the deil; 
he was in a rough humor, and said, “Wha may you be, and what’s your name?” 
“My name,” quoth I, “is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place was Adam-hill.” 

“ Gi wa’ wi’,” quoth Satan, “ye canna be here; yer ane of Lord K-’s damned 

brutes : Hell’s fou o’ them already i ” ’ ” This sharp rebuke, it is said, polished for 
the future his lordship’s speech. The trick alluded to in the same line was Rankine’s 
making tipsy one of the “ unco gude.” 

* A song he had promised the author. 






142 


WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. 


So gat the whissle o’ my groat, 

Aa’ pay’t the fee. 

But, by my gun, o’ guns the wale. 
An’ by my pouther an’ my hail. 

An' by my hen, an’ by her tail, 

I vow an’ swear! 

The game shall pay, o’er moor an’ 
dale. 

For this, niest year. 

As soon’s the clockin-time is by. 

An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I’se hae sportin by an’ by. 

For my gowd guinea; 


Tho’ I should herd the buckskin kye 
For’t, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to 
blame! 

’Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame 
Scarce thro’ the feathers; 
An’ baith a yeflow George to claim. 
An’ thole their blethers! 

It pits me aye as mad’s a hare; 

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time’s expedient; 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 


WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, i 

ON NITH-SIDE 


Tiiou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 

Be thou deckt in silken stole, 

Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 

Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour, 

Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly 
dance. 

Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure with her syren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair; 

Let Prudence bless Enjoyment’s cup, 
Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life’s meridian flaming nigh. 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life’s proud summits wouldst thou 
scale ? 

Check thy climbing step, elate. 

Evils lurk in felon wait; 

Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold. 

Soar around each cliffy hold. 

While cheerful Peace, with linnet 
song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev’ning close, 
Beck’ning thee to long repose; 

As life itself becomes disease. 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 

‘ Fnar’s Carse was the estate of Captain 
on the banks of the Nith, near Ellisland. 
which the proprietor had erected. 


There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou’st seen, and heard, and 
wrought; 

And teach the sportive younkers 
round. 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man’s true, genuine estimate. 
The grand criterion of his fate. 

Is not—art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal Nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their 
mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav’n 
To Virtue or to Vice is giv’n. 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless w^ays, 
Lead to be wretched, vile, and 
base. 

Thus resign’d and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep; 

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more, 

To light and joy the good restore. 

To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide 
Quod the Beadsman of Nith-side. 

Riddel, of Glenriddel, beautifully situated 
The Hermitage was a decorated cottage, 






ODE. 


143 


Glenriddel Hermitage, June 28th, 1788‘ 

FROM THE MS. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 

Be thou deckt in silken stole. 

Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 

Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 

Fear not clouds will always lour, 
Happiness is but a name. 

Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor gleam. 

Fame, an idle restless dream. 

Peace, the tenderest flower of spring; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing; 


[ Those that sip the dew alone. 

Make the butterflies thy own; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepar’d, 

Guard, wherever thou canst guard; 
But thy utmost duly done. 

Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air. 

Make their consequence thy care • 
Keep the name of Man in mind, 

And dishonor not thy kind. 
Reverence, with lowly heart. 

Him whose wondrous work thou art: 
Keep His goodness still in view. 

Thy Trust, and Thy Example too. 
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide 1 
Quod the Beadsman of Nithe-side. 


ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.^ 


Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation, mark! 

Who in widow-weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonor’d years, 
Noosing with care a bursting 
purse. 

Baited with many a deadly curse! 


STROPHE. 

View the wither’d beldam’s face— 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity’s sweet melting 
grace? 

Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows. 

Pity’s flood there never rose. 

See those hands, ne’er stretch’d to 
save. 

Hands that took—but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and un¬ 
blest 

She goes, but not to realms of ever¬ 
lasting rest! 


ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort’ringfiends,) 

Seest thou whose step unwilling 
hither bends? 

No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper 
skies; 

’Tis thy trusty quondam mate. 

Doom’d to share thy fiery fate. 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 

Ten thousand glitt’ring pounds a 
year ? 

In other worlds can Mammon fail. 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

O, bitter mock’ry of the pompous 
bier. 

While down the wretched vital part 
is driv’n! 

The cave-lodg’d beggar, with a con¬ 
science clear. 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes 
to Heav’u. 


» The subject of this ode was the widow of Richard Oswald, Esq., of Auchincruive. 
She died December 6,1788. 







144 


ELEGY. 


ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON. 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONORS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD* 


But now his radiant course is run. 
For Matthew's course was bright : 
Ws soul was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless, Heav'nly Light. 


O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody! 
The meikle devil wi’ a woodie 
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 
O’er hurcheon hides, 

And like stock-fish come o’er his 
studdie 

Wi’ thy auld sides! 

He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us 
torn, 

The ae best fellow e’er was born 1 
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall 
mourn 

By wood and wild. 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 
Frae man exil’d. 

Ye hills, near neebors o’ the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting 
cairns! 

Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns. 
Where echo slumbers! 
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest 
bairns. 

My wailing numbers! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! 
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens! 
Yeburnies, wimplin down your glens, 
Wi’ toddlin din. 

Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lee; 
Y^e stately foxgloves fair to see. 

Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow’rs; 

Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o’ flow’rs. 


At dawn, when ev’ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head. 
At ev’n, wdien beans their fragrance 
shed, 

I’ th' rustling gale, 

Y’’e maukins whiddin thro’the glade. 
Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud , 
Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud, 

Ye whistling plover . 

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick 
brood; 

He’s gane for ever! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled 
teals, 

Y^e fisher herons, watching eels, 

Y'e duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 
Circling the lake, 

Y"e bitterns, till the quagmire reels. 
Rail’ for his sake 

Mourn, clam’ring craiks at close o' 
day, 

’Ylang fields o’ flow’ring clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 
Frae our cauld shore. 

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r. 

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r 
What time the moon,wi’ silent glow’r 
Sets up her horn, 

Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour 
Till waukrife morn I 


’ In February, 1791, Burns wrote respecting this poem - ‘'The Elegy on Captain 
Henderson is a tribute to the memory or a man I loved much , As almost all my 
religious tenets originate from my heart, ] am wonderfully pleased with the Idea 
that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved triend, or 
still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits.” 







ELEGY. 


145 


O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains. 
But now, what else for me remains 
But tales of woe; 

And frae my een the drapping rains 
Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the 
year! 

Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head. 

Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear. 
For him that’s dead! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air 
The roaring blast, 

Wide o’er the naked world declare 
The w'orth we’ve lost! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source 
of light! 

Mourn, empress of the silent night! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies 
bright. 

My Matthew mourn! 

For through your orbs he’s ta’en his 
flight. 

Ne’er to return. 

O Henderson! the man! the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone forever ? 
And hast thou crost that unknown 
river. 

Life’s dreary bound ? 

Like thee, where shall I find another. 
The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye 
Great, 

In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state! 

But by thy honest turf lil w^ait. 
Thou man of worth ! 

And weep the ae best fellow’s fate 
E’er lay in earth. 


. THE EPITAPH.^ 

Stop, passenger! my story’s brief. 
And truth I shall relate, man; 

I tell nae common tale o’ grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man; 
A look of pity hither cast. 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 
There molders here a gallant heart; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and 
ways, 

Canst throw uncommon light, 
man; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy 
praise. 

For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’ 
Wad life itself resign, man; 

The sympathetic tear maun fa’, 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man; 
This was a kinsman o’ thy ain, 

For Matthew was a true man. 


If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne’er gude wine did fear, man; 
This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If on’y whiggish whingin sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, mau 
May dool and sorrow be his lot. 

For Matthew was a rare man. 


’ Readers curious in the transmission of poetic ideas may amuse themselves by 
comparing this epitaph with Wordsworth’s Poet's Epitaph. 




TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 


146 


LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH 

OF SPRING.i 


Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
On every blooming tree, 

And spreads her sheets o’ daisies 
white 

Out-owre the grassy lea: 

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal 
streams. 

And glads the azure skies; 

But naught can glad the weary 
wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now laverocks wake the merry morn, 
Aloft on dewy wing; 

The merle, in his noontide bow’r. 
Makes woodland echoes ring; 

The mavis mild wi’ many a note. 
Sings drowsy day to rest; 

In love and freedom they rejoice, 
Wi’ care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 
The primrose down the brae; 

The hawthorn’s budding in the glen, 
Tnd milk-white is the slae; 

The meanest hind in fair Scotland 
May rove their sweets amang; 

But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland, 
Maun lie in prison strang. 

I was the Queen o’ bonnie France, 
Where happy I hae been, 

Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn, 

Ts blythe lay down at e’en: 

And I’m the sov’reign of Scotland, 
And mony a traitor there; 


Yet here 1 lie in foreign bands. 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 
IVIy sister and my fae. 

Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a 
sword 

That thro’ thy soul shall gae: 

The weeping blood in woman’s 
breast 

Was never known to thee; 

Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds 
of woe 

Frae woman’s pitying ee. 

My son! my son! may kinder stars 
Upon thy fortune shine; 

And may those pleasures gild thy 
reign, 

That ne’er wad blink on mine! 

God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes, 
Or turn their hearts to thee. 

And where thou meet’st thy mother’s 
friend, 

Remember him for me! 

Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns 
Nae mair light up the morn! 

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 
Wave o’er the yellow corn! 

And in the narrow house o’ death 
Let winter round me rave; 

And the next tlow’rs that deck the 
spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave! 


EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ .2 

When Nature her great master-piece design’d. 

And fram’d her last, best work, the human mind, 

Her eye intent on all the mazy plan. 

She form’d of various parts the various man. 

» Writing to Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, Burns says, “ Whether it is that the story 
of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether 
I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know 
not; but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past: 
on that account I enclose it particularly to you.” 

* Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, was one of the Commissioners of Excise. 
Burns met him at the house of the Duke of Athole. The ” Epistle ” was the poet’s 
earliest attempt in the manner of Pope. It has its merits, of course; but it lacks 
the fire, ease, and sweetness of his earlier Epistles to Lapraik, Smith, and others. 







TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 


Then first she calls the useful many forth; 

Plain plodding industry, and sober worth; 

Then peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 

And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth; 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 

And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds. 

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 

The lead and buoy are needful to the net: 

The caput mortuum of gross desires 

Makes a material for mere knights and squires; 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 

Then marks the unyielding mass witli grave designs, 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines; 

Last, she sublimes th’ Aurora of the poles, 

The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order’d system fair before her stood, 

Nature, well-pleas’d, pronounc’d it very good; 

But ere she gave creating labor o’er. 

Half-jest, she try’d one curious labor more; 

Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, 

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 

Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 

She forms the thing, and christens it—a Poet. 
Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow. 

When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 

A being form’d t’ amuse his graver friends. 

Admir’d and prais’d—and there the homage ends: 

A mortal quite unfit for Fortune’s strife, 

Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 

Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 

Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live: 

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 

Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 

She cast about a standard tree to find; 

And, to support his helpless woodbine state. 

Attach’d him to the generous truly great, 

A title, and the only one I claim. 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses’ hapless train. 

Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main! 

Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 

That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough; 

The little fate allows, they share as soon, 

Unlike sage, proverb’d, wisdom’s hard wrung boon. 
Tlie world were blest did bliss on them depend. 

Ah, that “the friendly e’er should want a friend!” 
Let prudence number o’er each sturdy son, 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 




148 


TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 

(Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 

Who make poor “will do” wait upon “I should” — 

We own they’re prudent, but who feels they’re good? 

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! 

God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy! 

But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know. 

Heaven’s attribute distinguish’d—to bestow! 

Whose arms of love would grasp the human race; 

Come thou who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace; 

Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! 

Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 

Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid. 

Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid ? 

I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 

I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 

But there are such who court the tuneful nine— 

Heavens! should the branded character be mine! 

Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur’d merit! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find, 

Pity the best of words should be but wind! 

So, to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends. 

But groveling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam’rous cry of starving want. 

They dun benevolence with shameless front; 

Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 

They persecute you all your future days! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain. 

My horny fist assume the plough again; 

The piebald jacket let me patch once more; 

On eighteeen-pence a week I’ve liv’d before. 

Tho’, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift; 

That, plac’d by thee upon the wish’d-for height. 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight. 

My muse may imp her wing for some subliraer flight. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRA, ESQ. 

Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg,i 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg; 

Dull, listless, teas’d, dejected, and deprest 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest). 

Will generous Graham list to his Poet’s wail ? 

(It soothes poor Misery, heark’ning to her tale,) 

And hear him curse the light he first survey’d, 

And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 

Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 

^ “ By a fall, not from my horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple some 
time.” Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 7th February, 1791. 




TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


149 


The lion aad the bull thy care have found, 

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground ; 
Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 

Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell.— 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour. 

In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power. — 

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; 

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 

Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 
Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts. 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 

To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard! 

A thing unteachable in world’s skill. 

And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 

No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun; 

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; 

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 

And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn ; 

No nerves olfact’ry. Mammon’s trusty cur. 

Clad in rich Dulness’ comfortable fur, 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears th’ unbroken blast from ev’ry side: 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 

And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics—appall’d I venture on the name. 

Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame. 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, 

He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung. 

By blockheads’ daring into madness stung; 

His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 

By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear: 
Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife. 

The hapless Poet flounders on thro’ life. 

Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir’d. 

And fled each Muse that glorious once Inspir’d, 

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur’d page. 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic’s rage! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas’d, 
For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast; 

By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 

Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. 

O Dulness! portion of the truly blest I 
Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest! 

Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams. 

If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 

With sober selfish ease they sip it up, 

Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve. 
They only wonder “ some folks ” do not starve. 



150 


A LAMENT, 


The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 

And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 

When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 

And thro’disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 

And just conclude that “ fools are fortune’s care.” 
So heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, 

Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train. 

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 

By turns in soaring heav’n, or vaulted hell. 

I dread thee. Fate, relentless and severe. 

With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fearl 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 

Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 

(Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears, 

And left us darkling in a world of tears;) 

Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare! 

Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown. 

And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path; 

Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 


LxiMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.^ 


The wind blew hollow fraethe hills, 
By fits the sun’s departing beam 
Look’d on the fading yellow woods 
That wav’d o’er Lugar’s winding 
stream; 

Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, 
Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail’d his lord. 
Whom death had all untimely taen. 

He lean’d him to an ancient aik. 
Whose trunk was mold’ring down 
with years; 

His locks were bleached white wi’ 
time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears; 
And as he touch’d his trembling harp. 
And as he tun’d his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro’ their 
caves. 

To echo bore the notes alang. 


“ Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing, 
The reliques of the vernal quire! 
Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds 
The honors of the aged year! 

A few short months, and glad and 

gay, 

Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e; 
But nocht in all revolving time 
Can gladness bring again to me. 

“ I am a bending ag^d tree. 

That long has stood the wind and 
rain; 

But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane: 
Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, 
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 
And ithers plant them in my room. 

“ I’ve seen so many changefu’ years, 
On earth I am a stranger grown; 


* This nobleman, for whom the Poet had a deep respect, died at Falmouth, in his 
forty-second year. Burns wore mourning for the Earl, and designed to attend his 
funeral in Ayrshire. He enclosed the poem to Lady Elizabeth Cunningham, sis¬ 
ter of the deceased nobleman. 




A LAMENT. 


151 


I waader in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown: 

Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d, 

I bare alane my lade o’ care. 

For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a’ that would my sorrows share. 

“ And last (the sum of a’ my griefs!) 
My noble master lies in clay; 

The flow’r amang our barons bold, 
His country’s pride, his country’s 
stay: 

In weary being now I pine. 

For a’ the life of life is dead, 

And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

“ Awake thv last sad voice, my harp! 
The voice of woe and wild despair! 

Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair! 

And thou, my last, best, only friend. 
That fillest an untimely tomb. 

Accept this tribute from the Bard 
Thou brought from fortune’s mirk- 
est gloom. 

"In Poverty’s low barren vale. 
Thick mists, obscure, involv’d me 
round; 


Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye. 
No ray of fame was to be found; 
Thou found’st me, like the morning 
sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless Bard, and rustic song, 
Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O! why has wmrth so short a date? 

While villainsripen gray with time 1 
Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great. 
Fall in bold manhood’s hardy 
prime ? 

Why did I live to see that day V 
A day to me so full of woe? 

O! had I met the mortal shaft 
Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the 
bride 

Was made his wedded wife yes¬ 
treen ; 

The monarch may forget the crown 
That on his head an liourhas been, 
The mother may forget the child 
That smiles sae sweetly on her 
knee; 

But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn, 
And a’ that thou hast done for me! ” 


LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFORD, 
BART., WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 


Thou, who thy honor as thy God rever’st. 

Who, save thy mind’s reproach, naught earthly fear’st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart. 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valued’st, I, the Patron, lov’d; 

His worth, his honor, all the world approv’d. 

We’ll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 





152 


TAM O’ SHANTER. 


TAM O’ SHANTERA 

A TALE. 


Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 

And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, 

As market-days are wearing late, 

An’ folk begin to tak the gate; 

While we sit bousing at the nappy. 

An’ getting fou and unco happy, 

We think na on the lang Scots miles, 

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. 

That lie between us and our hame, 

Whare sits our sulky sullen dame. 

Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, 

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 

» “ When my father,'’ writes Gilbert Burns, "feued his little property near Alloway 
Kirk, the wall of the churchyard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas¬ 
ture in it. My father, with two or three other neighbors, joined in an application to 
the town council of Ayr, who were superiors of the adjoining land, for liberty to re¬ 
build it, and raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient cemetery with 
a wall; hence he came to consider it as his burial-place, and we learned that reverence 
for it people generally have for the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother was 
living at Ellisland, when Captain Grose on his pereginations through Scotland, stayed 
some time at Carse House, in the neighborhood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, a particular friend of rny brother’s. The Antiquarian and the Poet were ‘ unco 
pack and thick thegither.’ Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he should come 
to Ayrshire, that he would make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, as it was the burial-place 
of his father, and where he himself had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him; and added by way of encouragement, 
that it was the scene of many a good story of witches and apparitions, of which he 
knew the Captain was very fond. The Captain agreed to the request, provided 
the Poet would furnish a witch story, to be printed along with it. ‘Tam o’ Shan¬ 
ter' was produced on this occasion, and was first published in ‘Grose’s Antiquities 
of Scotland.’ ” The following letter, sent by Burns to Captain Grose, deals with the 
witch stories that clustered round Alloway Kirk. 

“ Among the many witch stories I have heard relating to Alloway Kirk, £ dis¬ 
tinctly remember only two or three. 

“Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind and bitter blasts of hail- 
in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take the air in—a farmer, ora 
farmer's servant, was plodding and plashing homeward with his plough-irons on his 
shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighboring smithy. His way 
lay by the Kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious lookout in approaching 
the place so well known to be a favorite haunt of the devil, and the devil’s friends and 
emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering, through the horrors of the storm 
and stormy night, a light, which, on his nearer approach, plainly showed itself to pro¬ 
ceed from the haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above on his 
devout supplication, as is customary with people when they suspect the immediate 
presence of Satan, or whether, according to another custom, he had got courageously 
drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; but so it was, that he ventured 
to go up to—nay, into—the very Kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came off 
unpunished. 

“The members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnight business or 
other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, depending from thereof, 
over the fire, simmering some heads of unchristened children, limbs of executed male¬ 
factors. etc., for the business of the night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman ; so, without ceremony, he unhooked the caldron from 




TAM o’ SHANTER, 


153 


(Aiild Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, 

For lionest men and bonnie lasses.) 

O Tam! liadst tliou but been sae wise, 

As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! 

She tank! thee weel thou wast a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market-day thou was na sober; 

That ilka melder, wi’ the miller. 

Thou sat as laug as thou had siller; 

That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on, 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 

That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday. 

off the fire, and pouring out its damnable ingredients, inverted it on his head, and 
carried it fairly home, where it remained long in the family, a living evidence of the 
truth of the story. 

“ Another story which I can prove to be equally authentic, was as follows 

“ On a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Garrick, and consequently 
whose way lay by the verj^ gate of Alloway Kirkyard, in order to cross the river Doon 
at the old bridge, which is about two or three hundred yards farther on than the 
said gate, had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway 
it was the wizard hour, between night and morning. 

“Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the Kirk, yet as it is a well- 
known fact, that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of 
mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the 
Kirkyard, he was surprised and entertained, through the ribs and arches of an old 
Gothic window, which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily foot¬ 
ing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with 
the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a little, 
could plainly descry the faces of many of his acquaintance and neighborhood. How 
the gentleman was dressed, tradition does not say, but that the ladies were all in their 
smocks ; and one of them happening unluckily to have a smock which was consider¬ 
ably too short to answer all the purposes of that piece of dress, our farmer was so 
tickled that he involuntarily burst out, with a loud laugh, ' Weel looppen, Maggy wi’ 
the short sark ! ’ and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of his 
speed. I need not mention the universally known fact, that no diabolical power can 
pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor 
farmer that the river Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, 
which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and 
consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags were so close 
at his heels, that one of them actually sprang to seize him ; but it was too late : noth¬ 
ing was on her side of the stream but the horse’s tail, which immediately gave way at 
her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond 
her reach. However, the unsightly, tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to 
the last hours of the noble creature’s life, an awful warning to he Garrick farmers 
not to stay too late in Ayr markets.” 

This letter is interesting, as showing the actual body of tradition on which Burns had 
to work—the soil out of which the consummate poem grew like a flower. And it is 
worthy of notice also how, out of the letter, some of the best things in the poem have 
come : “ such a night as the devil would choose to take the air in ” being, for instance, 
the suggestion of the couplet— 

That night a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

It is pleasant to know that Burns thought well of “ Tam o’ Shanter.” 

To Mrs. Dunlop he wrote on the 11th April, 1791 .’—“On Saturday morning last Mrs. 
Burns made me a present of a fine boy, rather stouter, but not so handsome as your 
godson was at his time of life. Indeed, I look on your little namesake to be my chef- 
d'oeuvre in that species of manufacture, as I look on ‘ Tam o’ Shanter’ to be my stand¬ 
ard performance in the poetical line. ’Tistrue, both the one and the other discover a 
spice of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as well spared . but then they also 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a finisliing polish, that I despair of ever ex¬ 
celling.” 





154 


TAM O’ SHANTER. 


She prophesy’d that, late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon; 
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, 

To think how mony counsels sweet. 

How mony lengthen’d, sage advices. 

The husband frae the wife despises 1 
But to our tale. Ae market night, 

Tam had got planted unco right; 

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 

Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely; 

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 

Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither, 

They had been fou for weeks thegither. 

The nights drave on wi’ sangs and clatter; 

And ay the ale was growing better: 

The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 

Wi’ favors, secret, sweet, and precious; 

The souter tauld his queerest stories; 

The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus: 

The storm without might rair and rustle, 

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 

E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy: 

As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure, 

The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. 
O'er a' the ills o’ life victorious! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 

You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed; 

Or like the snow-falls in the river, 

A moment white—then melts forever; 

Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow’s lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm.— 

Nae man can tether time or tide;— 

The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 

That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 

And sic a night he taks the road in. 

As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last; 

The rattling show’rs rose on the blast; 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d; 
That night, a child might understand. 

The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 

A better never lifted leg, 

Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire. 

Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 




TAM o’ SHANTER. 


155 


Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o’er some aiild Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glowTing round wi’ prudent cares, 
JLest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 

Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.— 

By this time he was cross the ford, 

Whare in the snaw’, the chapman smoor’d; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 

Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane; 
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn. 

Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn; 

And near the thorn, aboon the well, 

Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel.— 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 

The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 

Near and more near the thunders roll: 

When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze; 

Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.— 
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 

Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil; 

Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!— 

The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle. 
Fair play, he car’d na deils a doddle. 

But iMaggie stood right sair astonish’d, 

Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d. 

She ventur’d forward on the light; 

And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels. 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnock-bunker in the east. 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast; 

A to-wzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 

To gie them music was his charge: 

He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.— 

Coflins stood round like open presses. 

That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light,— 

By which heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer’s banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns; 

A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 

Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red rusted; 

Five scymitars, wi’ murder crusted; 




156 


TAM o’ SHANTER. 


A garter, which a babe had strangled; 

A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son o’ life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; 

Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’. 

Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’. 

As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious, 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; 

The piper loud and louder blew; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew; 

They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 

And coost her duddies to the wark. 

And linket at it in her sark! 

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, 

A’ plump and strapping in their teens; 

Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, 

Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen! 

Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair. 

That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair, 

I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies. 

For ae blink ’ the bounie burdies! 

But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 

Lowping and flinging on a crummock, 

I wonder didn; turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie. 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kend on Garrick shore; 

For mony a beast to dead she shot. 

And perish’d mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 

And kept the country-side in fear,) 

Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, 

That while a lassie she had worn. 

In longitude tho’ sorely scanty. 

It was her best, and she was vauntie.— 

Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, 

That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 

Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches). 

Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour; 

Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 

(A souple jade she was, and strang,) 

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d, 

And thought his very een enrich’d; 

Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain. 

And botch’d and blew wi’ might and main; 

Till first ae caper, syne anither, 

Tam tint his reason a’ thegither, 

And roars out, “ Weel done, Cutty-sark!” 

And in an instant all was dark; 





TAM O’ SHANTER. 


157 


And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke; 

As open pussie’s mortal foes, 

When, pop! she starts before their nose; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When, “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi’ monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairial ) 
In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin! 

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 

Kate soon will be a wofu’ woman! 

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane of the brig i 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross. 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake! 

For Nannie, far before the rest. 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 

And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 

But left behind her ain gray tail; 

The carlin caught her by the rump. 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read. 

Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed, 

Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, 

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 

Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear. 
Remember Tam O’Shanter’s mare.'^ 


‘ It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to fol¬ 
low a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveler that when he falls in 
with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more 
hazard in turning back. R. B. 

2 “Tam o’ Shanter,” as already stated, appeared first in Captain Grose’s “ Anti¬ 
quities of Scotland.” To the poem the editor appended the following note ; “To 
my ingenious friend, Mr. Robert Burns, I have been seriously obligated ; for he was 
not only at the pains of making out what was most worthy of notice in Ayrshire, 
the county honored by his birth, but he also wrote expressly for this work the 
pretty tale annexed to Alloway Church.” Grose’s book appeared at the close of 
April, 1791, and he died in Dublin shortly after. 




158 


ON CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS. 


ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS 
TPIROUGH SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 


Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither 
Scots, 

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats 
If there’s a hole in a’ your coats, 

I rede you tent it; 

A chield’s amang you taking notes, 
And, faith, he’ll prent it. 

If in your bounds 3 '^e chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O’ stature short, but genius bright. 
That’s he, mark weel— 
And wow! he has an unco slight 
O’ cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted big- 
gin,i 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 

It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in 
Some eldritch part, 

\Vi’ deils, they say, Lord save’s, 
colleaguin 

At some black art.— 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or 
chamer. 

Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, 
And you deep read in hell’s black 
grammar. 

Warlocks and witches. 
Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
Y"e midnight bitches. 

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred. 

And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; 
But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, 
And dog-skin wallet. 

And taen the—Antiquarian trade, 

1 think they call it. 


He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: 
Rusty aim caps and jingliu jackets,* 
Wad baud the Lothians three in 
tackets, 

A towmont gude; 

And parritch-pats, and auld saut- 
backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve’s first five he has a cinder; 
Auld Tubalcaiu's firs-shool and 
fender; 

That wdiich distinguished the gender 
O’ Balaam’s ass; 

A broom-stick o’ the witch of Endor, 
Weel shod wi’ brass. 

Forbye, he’ll shape you alf, fu’ gleg 
The cut of Adam’s philibeg; 

The knife that nicket Abel’s craig 
He’ll prove you fully. 

It was a faulding jocteleg. 

Or lang-kail gullie.— 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 

For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 
Gude fellows wi’ him; 
And port, O port! shine thou a wee, 
And then ye’ll see him! 

Now, by the Pow rs o verse and 
prose I 

Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose I— 
Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose. 
They sair misca’ thee; 

I’d take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa’ thee I 


1 Vide his “ Antiquities of Scotland.” R. B. 

» Vide his “ Treatise on Ancient Armor and Weapons.” R. B. 




ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. 


159 


ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

{April, 1789. J 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; 

' May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart 1 

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. 

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn. 

I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.^ 


ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS 


While virgin Spring, by Eden’s 
flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 

Or tunes Eolian strains between; 

While summer with a matron 
grace 

Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling 
shade. 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 


And sees, with self-approving mind. 
Each creature on his bounty fed; 

While maniac Winter rages o’er 
The hi Is whence classic Yarrow 
flows. 

Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of 
snows; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year. 
Shall bloom that wreath thou well 
hast won; 

While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
Proclaims that Thomson was her 
son. 


*■ Far. 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hapless fate. 

The changes in this poem were made on the suggestion of Dr. Gregory, to whom 
the Poet had sent a copy. 






i6o 


PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 


TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY, 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 


Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in tliy early May, 

Never may’st thou, lovely Flow’r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show’r! 

Never Boreas’ hoary path. 

Never Eurus’ pois’nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 

Taint thee with untimely blights 1 
Never, never reptile thief 
Biot on thy virgin leaf! 

Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew I 


May’st thou long, sweet crimson 
gem. 

Richly deck thy native stem; 

Till some evening, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And every bird thy requiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 

Shed thy dying honors round, 

And resign to parent earth 

The loveliest form she e’er gave birth. 


ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M’LEOD, ESQ., 

BROTHER TO A YOtTNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR’S. 


Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms: 

Death tears the brother of her love 
From Isabella’s arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella’s morn. 

The sun propitious smil’d; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clo;>ids 
Succeeding hopes beguil’d. 


Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung; 

So Isabella’s heart was form’d. 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can heal the wound He gave; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering blast; 

There Isabella’s spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 


THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER i TO THE 
NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 


My Lord, I know your noble ear 
Woe ne’er assails in vain; 
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear 
Your humble Slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams. 
In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy 
streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 


The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 
That thro’ my waters play. 

If, in their random, wanton spouts. 
They near the margin stray; 

If, hapless chance! they linger lang. 
I’m scorching up so shallow. 
They’re left the whitening stanes 
amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

beautiful, but their effect 


’ Bruar Falls, in Athole. are exceedingly picturesque and 
is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. R. B. 






PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 


l6l 


Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, 
As Poet Burns came by, 

That to a Bard I should be seen 
Wi’ half my channel dry 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor’d me; 

But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador’d me. 

Here, foaming down the slielvy 
rocks. 

In twisting strength I rin; 

There, high my boiling torrent 
smokes, 

Wild-roarin o’er a linn: 

Enjoying large each spring and well 
As Nature gave them me, 

I am, altho’ I say’t mysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 
To grant my highest wishes. 

He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring 
trees. 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 
You’ll wander on my banks. 

And listen monie a grateful bird. 
Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 
Shall to the skies aspire, 

The gowdspink. Music’s gayest child. 
Shall sweetly join the choir; 

The blackbird strong, the lint white 
clear. 

The mavis mild and mellow; 

The robin pensive Autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow; 

This, too, a covert shall ensure. 

To shield them from the storm; 


And coward maukin sleep secure, 
Low in her grassy form. 

Here shall the shepherd make his seat^ 
To weave his crown of flow’rs; 

Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 
From prone-descending show’rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 
Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their 
wealth 

As empty, idle care. 

The flow’rs shall vie in all their charm 
The hour of heav’n to grace. 

And birks extend their fragrant arms, 
To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 
Some musing bard may stray. 

And eye the smoking, dewy lawn. 
And misty mountain, gray, 

Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, 
Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o’erspread. 

And view, deep-bending in the pool. 
Their shadows’ wat’ry bed! 

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 
My craggy cliffs adorn; 

And, for the little songster’s nest. 
The close embow’ring thorn. 

So may Old Scotia’s darling hope, 
Your little angel band, 

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 
Their honor’d native land! 

So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken. 
To social-flowing glasses 
The grace be—“ Athole's honest men. 
And Athole’s bonnie lasses! ” ^ 


* Mr. Walker in his letter to Dr. Currie, describing the impression Burns made at 
Blair, says, “The Duke’s fine family attracted much of his admiration ; he drank 
their health as/lonesf men and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very felicitously closed his poem.” 




THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND’S ALARM 


162 


THE KIRK’S ALARM. ^ 

^ SATIRE. 

‘ A Ballad Tune— “ Push about the Brisk Bowl,'* 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; 

There’s a heretic blast has been blawn i’ the wast, 

“ That what is not sense must be nonsense.” 

Dr Mac, Dr Mac,’ you should stretch on a rack. 
To strike evil doers wi’ terror. 

To join faith and sense upon onie pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 
To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing; 

Provost John® is still deaf to the church’s relief. 
And orator Bob^ is its ruin. 


D’rymple mild. D’rymple® mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child, '' 

And your life like the new driven snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye. 

For preaching that three’s ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John,® mount the steps wi’ a groan. 

Cry the book is wi’ heresy cramm’d; 

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle, 

And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d. 

Simper James, Simper James,’ leave the fair Killie dames, 

There’s a holier chase in your view; 

I’ll lay on your head, that the pack ye’D soon lead. 

For puppies like you there’s but few. 

> The occasion of the satire was as follows. In 1786 Dr. Wm. McGill, one of the min¬ 
isters of Ayr, published an essay on “ The Death of Jesus Christ,” which was de¬ 
nounced as heterodox by Dr. Wm. Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr, in a sermon preached 
by him November 5th, 1788. Dr. McGill published a defense, and the case came before 
the Ayr presbytery, and finally before the synod of Glasgow and Ayr. In August, 
1789, Burns wrote to Mr. Logan; ” I have, as you will shortly see, finished the ' Kirk’s 
Alarm ; but now that it is done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits 
of some of the stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into the public : so 1 send 
you this copy the first I have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which 
I wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request 
that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on any account give, or permit to 
be taken, any copy of the ballad.” With reference to the ballad he wrote to Mr. 
Graham of F'intry ‘ 1 laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced 
in my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too.” 

* Dr McGill. 

* John Ballatnyne, Esq., Provost of Ayr. 

* Mr Robert Aitken 

* Rev. Dr. Wm. Dalrymple. 

“ Rev. John Russel. see ” Holy Fair.” 

’Rev. James Mackinlay . see “Ordination.” 



THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 


1^3 


Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney,are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await ? 

Wi’ a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld,^ there’s a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk 

Tho’ ye can do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death. 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,^ if for a saint ye do muster. 

The corps is no nice of recruits: 

Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes, 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose. 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; 

But the Doctor’s your mark, for the L—d’s haly ark. 

He has cooper’d and caw’d a wrang pin in’t. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,® gie the Doctor a volley 
Wi’ your “ liberty’s chain ” and your wit, 

O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place wh'^re he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk,^ ye may slander the book. 

And the book no the waur, let me tell ye 1 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig. 

And ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma’ value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,® what mean ye V what mean ye? 
If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter. 

Ye may hae some pretense to havins and sense, 

Wi’ people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side, Irvine Side,® wi’ your turkeycock pride. 

Of manhood but sma’ is your share ; 

Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, even your faes will allow. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,^® when the Lord makes a rock 
To crush common sense for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 


• Rev. Alexander Moodie • see “ The Twa Herds.” * Rev. Mr. Auld. 

» Mr Gavin Hamilton * Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. 

*’ Mr. Young, Cumnock 

° Rev Dr William Peebles. He had written a poem which contained a ridiculous 
lines 


And bound in Liberty’s endearing chain. 


’ Dr. Andrew Mitchell, Monkton. 

® Rev. Stephen Young, Barr 
* Rev. George Smith, Galston • see “Holy Fair.” 
Rev. John Shepherd, Muiikirk. 


18 —Burns—II 





ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 


164 


Holy Will, Holy Will,i there was wit i’ your skull, 
When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor; 

The timmer is scant when ye’re ta’en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, 

Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons, seize your sp’ritual guns. 
Ammunition you never can need; 

Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough. 

And your skulls are storehouses o’ lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Your muse is a gipsy, e’en tho’ she were tipsy, 

She cou’d ca’ us nae waur than w'e are. 


ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, 

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER. 


My curse upon your venom’d stang, 
That shoots my tortur’d gums alang; 
And thro’ my lugs gies monie a 
twang, 

Wi’ gnawing vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang. 
Like racking engines! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, 
Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease 
us, 

Wi’pitying moan; 

But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases. 
Aye mocks our groan! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle! 
I throw the wee stools o’er the 
mickle. 

As round the tire the giglets keckle 
To see me loup; 

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 
Were in their doup. 


O’ a’ the numerous human dools, 

III har’sts, daft bargains, cutty- 
stools,— 

Or worthy friends rak’d 1 ’ the mools. 
Sad sight to see! 

The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’ fools, 
Thou bear’st the gree. 

Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell. 
When a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell. 

And ranked plagues their numbers 
tell, 

In dreadfu’ raw. 

Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the 
bell 

Amang them a’l 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 
In gore a shoe-thick 
Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal 

A towraont’s Toothache. 


WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL ' 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTSL. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 

O’er many a winding dale and painful steep, 

Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep. 

‘ Mr. William Fisher, the " Holy Willie ” of the famous satire. 




BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. 


165 


My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 

Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.— 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter’d, clothe their ample sides; 
Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ’mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills; 

The Tay meand’ring sweet in infant pride. 

The palace rising on his verdant side; 

The lawns wood-fringed in Nature’s native taste, 
The hillocks dropt in Nature’s careless haste; 

The arches striding o’er the new-born stream; 

The village, glittering in the noontide beam— 


Poetic ardors in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand’ring by the hermit’s mossy cell. 

The sweeping theater of hanging woods; 

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 


Here Poesy might wake her heav’n-taught lyre. 

And look through Nature with creative fire, 

Here, to the wrongs of Pate half reconcil’d, 

Misfortune’s lighten’d steps might wander wild; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 

Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds: 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch her scan, 
And injur’d Worth forget and pardon man. 


ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 


Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’meikle love. 
And ward o’ mony a prayer, 

What heart o’ stane wad thou na 
move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o’er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form; 

And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree, 
Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show’r. 
The bitter frost and snaw. 


May He, the friend of woe and want 
Who heals life’s various stounds, 
Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds. 

But late she flourish’d, rooted fast, 
Pair in the summer morn 
Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter’d and forlorn. 


Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath’d by ruffian hand! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land. 


' Miss Susan Dunlop, daug:hter of Mr. Dunlop, married a French gentleman named 
Henri. The voung couple were living at Loudon Castle when M. Henri died, leaving his 
Wife pregnant. The verses were written on the birth of a son and heir. Mrs. Dunlop 





SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 


166 


WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, thro’ a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 

As deep recoiling surges foam below. 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
And viewless Echo’s ear, astonished, rends. 

Dim-seen, thro’ rising mists and ceaseless show’rs. 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low’rs. 

Still, thro’ the gap the struggling river toils. 

And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils— 


SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.i 


Auld neebok, 

I’m three times doubly o’er your debt¬ 
or. 

For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter; 
Tho’ I maun say’t, 1 doubt ye flatter. 
Ye speak sae fair. 

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 
Some less maun sair. 


tiale be your heart, hale be your 
fiddle; 

Lang may your elbuck jink and did¬ 
dle. 

To cheer you through the weary 
widdle 

O’ war’ly cares. 


communicated the intelligence to Burns, and received the following letter in return ; 
“ ‘ As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country 1 ’ Fate has 
long owed me a letter of good news from you,in return for the many tidings of sorrow 
which 1 have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the Apostle—‘ Rejoice 
with them that do rejoice.’ For me to sing for joy is no new thing ; but to preach for 
joy, as 1 have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant 
rapture to which 1 never rose before. 1 read your letter—I literally jumped for joy ; 
how could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt 
of the best news from his best friend ? 1 seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an in¬ 
strument indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and 
rapture; and stride, stride—quick and quicker—out skipped I among the blooming 
banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose 
was impossible.” Mr. Chambers traces the future history of Mrs. Henri and her son : 
“In a subsequent letter Burns deplores her (Mrs. Henri’s) dangerous and distressing 
situation in France, exposed to the tumults of the Revolution ; and he has soon after 
occasion to condole with his venerable friend on the death of her daughter in a foreign 
land. When this sad event took place, the orphan child fell under the immediate care 
of his paternal grandfather, who, however, was soon obliged to take refuge in 
Switzerland, leaving the infant behind him. Years passed, he and the Scotch friends 
of the child heard nothing of it, and concluded that it was lost. At length, when 
the elder Henri was enabled to return to his ancestral domains, he had the unspeak¬ 
able satisfaction of finding that his grandson and heir was alive and well, having 
never been removed from the place. The child had been protected and reared with the 
greatest care by a worthy female named Mademoiselle Susette, formerly a domestic 
in the family. This excellent person had even contrived, through all the leveling vio¬ 
lence of the intervening period, to preserve in her young charge the feeling appro¬ 
priate to his rank. Though absolutely indebted to her industry for his bread, she nad 
caused him always to be seated by himself at table and regularly waited on, so 
that the otherwise plebeian circumstances in which he lived did not greatly affect 
him. The subject of Burns’s stanzas was, a very few years ago, proprietor of the 
family estates ; and it is agreeable to add that Mademoiselle Susette then lived in his 
paternal mansion, in the enjoyment of that grateful respect to which her fidelity and 
discretion so eminently entitled her. 

^ This epistle was prefixed to the edition of Sillar’s poems, published in Kilmarnock 
in 1789. 





THE INVENTORY. 


167 


Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 
Y’our auld gray hairs. 


But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; 
I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; 
And gif it’s sae, ye sud be licket 
Until ye fyke; 

Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit. 
Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, 
Rivin’ the words to gar them clink; 
Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t 
wi’ drink, 

Wi’ jads or masons; 

An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think 
Braw sober lessons. 

Of a’ the thoughtless sons 0 ’ man. 
Commend me to the Bardie clan; 
Except it be some idle plan 
O’ rhymin clink. 

The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 


Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme 
o’ livin’, 

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’; 

But just the poLichie put the nieve in. 
An’Avhile ought’s there. 

Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’. 
An’ fash nair mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme I it’s aye a trea¬ 
sure. 

My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 

At hanie, a-hel’, at wark or leisure, 
The Muse, poor hizzie! 

Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her meas¬ 
ure. 

She’s seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie; 

The warl’ may play you monie a 
shavie; 

But for the Muse, she’ll never leave 

ye, 

Tho’ e’er sae puir, 

Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie 
Frae door tae door. 


THE INVENTORY.! 


IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT BY A SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING A 
RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES, SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, ETC., KEPT. 


Sm, as your mandate did request, 

I send you here a faithfu’ list, 

O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith. 
To which I’m clear to gi’e my aith. 

Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, 
I have four brutes o’ gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle; 

My han’ afore’sagude auld has-been. 
An’ wight an’ wilfu’ a’ his days 
been; 

My han’ ahin’s a weel gaun fillie. 
That aft has borne me hame frae 
Killie, 

An’ your auld borough monie a 
time, 

In days when riding was nae crime— 
But ance whan in my wooing pride 
I like a blockhead boost to ride. 


The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to, 
(Lord, pardon a’ my sins an’ that 
too!) 

I play’d my fillie sic a shavie. 

She’s a’ bedevild wi’ the spavie. 

My furr-ahin’s a wordy beast. 

As e’er in tug or tow was trac’d,— 
The fourth’s, a Highland Donald 
hastie, 

A damn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie. 
Foreby a Cowte, o’ Cowte’s the wale. 
As ever ran afore a tail; 

If he^ spar’d to be a beast. 

He’ll araw me fifteen pun at 
least.— 

Wheel carriages I ha’e but few, 
Three carts, an’ twa are feckly 
new; 


^ The “ Inventory ” was addressed to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of taxes for the 
district. It was first printed in the Liverpool edition of the poems. 






i68 


THE WHISTLE. 


Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg, an’ baitli the trams, are 
broken; 

I made a poker o’ the spin’le. 

An’ my auld mother brunt the 
trin’le. 

For men. I’ve three mischievous 
boys. 

Run de’ils for rantin’ an’ for noise; 

A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’other. 
Wee Davock hands the * nowte in 
fother. 

I rule them as I ought discreetly. 

An’ often labor them completely. 

An’ ay on Sundays duly nightly, 

I on the questions tairge them tightly; 
Till faith, wee Davock’s grown sae 
gleg, 

Tho’ scarcely langer than my leg. 
He’ll screed you aff Effectual Calling, 
As fast as onie in the dwalling. — 
I’ve nane in female servan’ sta¬ 
tion, 

(Lord keep me ay frae a’ tempta¬ 
tion!) 

I ha’e nae wife, and that my bliss 
is. 

An’ ye have laid nae tax on misses; 
An’ then if kirk folks dinna clutch 
me, 

I ken the devils dare na touch me. 

Mossgiel, 

February n, 1786. 


Wi’ weans I’m mair than weel con¬ 
tented, 

Heav’n sent me ane mae than 1 
wanted. 

My sonsie smirking dear-bought 
Bess, 

She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady, 
I’ve paid enough for her already, 
An’ gin ye tax her or her mither, 
B’ the Lord, ye’se get them a’ the- 
gither. 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Nae kind of license out I’m takin’; 
Frae this time forth, I do declare, 
I’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair; 
Thro’ dirt and dub for life I’ll paidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; 

My travel a' on foot I’ll shank it. 

I’ve sturdy bearers, Gude be thank* 
it!— 

The Kirk an’ you may tak’you that, 
It puts but little in your pat; 

Sae dinna put me in your buke. 

Nor for my ten white shillings luke. 

This list wi’ my ain han’ I wrote it, 
Day an’ date as under notit; 

Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic, 

Robert Burns. 


THE WHISTLE. I 

A BALLAD. 

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king. 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

* “ As the authentic prose history of the W^histle is curious,” writes Burns, ” I shall 
here give itIn the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table ; and whoever was last 
able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to 
carry oiT the whistle as a trophy of victory The Dane produced credentials of his vie- 
tones, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany: and challenged the Scots 
Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else acknowledging their 
inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encounter¬ 
ed by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of 
that name, who after three days’ and three nights’ hard contest, left the Scandina* 
vian under the table. 

And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 





THE WHISTLE 


169 


Old Loda, still rueiiig the arm of Fingal,^ 

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 

‘ ‘ This Whistle’s your challenge, in Scotland get o’er^ 

And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne’er see me morel” 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 

What champions ventur’d, what champions fell; 

The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 

And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 

Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war, 

He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 

No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he. 

Sir VValter, son to Sir Robert before mentloued, afterwards lost the whistle to Wal¬ 
ter Riddel of Gleariddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter’s. On Friday, the 
16th October, 1790, at Friar’s Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as 
related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; Robert Riddle, 
Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel who won 
the whistle, and in whose family it had continued . and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of 
Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman 
carried off the hard-won honors of the field. R. B.” 

Oddly enough, on the 16th October, 1789, we have a letter from Burns addressed to 
Captain Riddel, referring to the Bacchanalian contest. “ Big with the idea of this 
important day at Friar’s Carse, I have watched the elements and skies in the full 
persuasion that they would announce it to the astonished world by some phenomena 
of terrific portent. Yesternight, till a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial armies of sanguin¬ 
ary Scandinavians darting athwart the startled heaven, rapid as the ragged light¬ 
ning, and horrid as the convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

“ The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly : they did not 
even usher in the morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, symbolical of the 
three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me, as Thomson in his 
Winter says of the storm, I shall ’ Hear astonished, and astonished sing ’ 

The whistle and the man ; 1 sing 
The man that won the whistle.” 

And he concludes by wishing that the captain’s head “ may be crowned by laurels to¬ 
night, and free from aches to-morrow.” Burns in his note is supposed to have made 
a mistake of a year. He says the whistle was contended for on Friday, the 16th Oc¬ 
tober, 1790; but in 1789, the 16th October fell on a Friday, and in 1790 it fell on a 
Saturday. 

It is not quite clear what share the poet took in the fray. Allan Cunningham tates 
that the whistle was contended for “in the dining-room of Friar’s Carse in Burns’s 
presence, who drank bottle after bottle with the competitors, and seemed disposed 
to take up the conqueror.” On the other hand, Mr. Hunter of Cockrune, in the par¬ 
ish of Closeburn, reports that he has a perfect recollection of the whole affair. 
He states that ” Burns was present the whole evening. He was invited to join the 
party to see that the gentlemen drank fair, and to commemorate the day by writing a 
song. I recollect well that, when the dinner was over. Burns quitted the table, and 
went to a table in the same room, that was placed in a window that looked southeast; 
and there he sat down for the night. I placed before him a bottle of rum, and another 
of brandy, which he did not finish, but left a good deal of each when he rose from the 
table after the gentlemen had gone to bed. . . . When the gentlemen were put to 
bed, Burns walked home without any assistance, not being the worse of drink. vVhen 
Burns was sitting at the table in the window, he had pen, ink, and paper, which I 
brought him at his own request. He now and then wrote on the paper, and while 
the gentlemen were sober, he turned round often, and chatted with them, but drank 
none of the claret which they were drinking. ... I heard him read aloud several 
parts of the poem, much to the amusement of the three gentlemen.” It is just possi¬ 
ble that Burns is after all correct enough in his dates. His letter to Captain Riddel on 
the 16th October, 1789, although clear enough as to the impending ” claret-shed,” 
hardly suggests that the writer expected to be present. The theory that the revel 
had been originally arranged for that date, and, unknown feo Burns, suddenly postponed 
for a year, would explain the matter. 

* See Ossian’s Caric-thur. R. B. 



170 


THE WHISTLE. 


Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d. 

Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; 

Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 

The jovial contest again have renew’d. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins; 

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil. 

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; 

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 

And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients! ” Glenriddel replies, 

“ Before I surrender so glorious a prize. 

I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,^ 

And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.” 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 

But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe—or his friend. 

Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field. 

And knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care, 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray. 

And tell future ages the feats of the day; 

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 

And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 

And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set. 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. ' 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er; 

Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, 

And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 

Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next mom. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, 

When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight. 

Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, 

And swore ’twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage. 

No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; 

* See Johnson’s “ Tour to the Hebrides.” R. B. 



TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 


I71 


A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine! 

He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 

But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend ? 

Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; 

So up rose bright Phoebus—and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink:— 

“ Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! 

But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 

Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! 

“ Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce; 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day 1 ” 

SKETCH! 

iNSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON, C. 0. POX. 

flow Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite; 

How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white; 

How Genius, th’ illustrious father of fiction. 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction— 

I sing; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, 

1 care not, not I—let the Critics go whistle! 

But now^ for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 

Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong. 

No man, with the half of ’em, e’er could go wrong; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 

No man with the half of ’em e’er could go right; 

A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 

For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks. 

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks. 

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 

All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labors. 

That, like th’ old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbors 
Mankind are his show-box~a friend, would you know him? 

Pull the string, Ruling Passion, the picture will show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 

One trifling particular. Truth, should have miss’d him I 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

' “I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, 
to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that fancy may hold, 1 cannot say. A few 
of the first lines I have just rough-sketched as follows.” 

The poet’s MS. of the ” Sketch ” is in the British Museum. 




1/2 


TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 


Some sort all our qualities each to his tribe, 

Aud think Human-nature they truly describe; 

Have you found this, or t’other ? there’s more in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you’ll find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 
In the make of the wonderful creature call’d Man, 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 

Nor even two different shades of the same. 

Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother, 

Possessing the one shall imply you’ve the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse. 

Whose rhymes you’ll perhaps. Sir, ne’er deign to peruse: 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels. 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels! 

My much-honor’d Patron, believe your poor Poet, 

Your courage much more than your prudence you show it, 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle. 

He’ll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; 

Not cabinets even of kings would conceal ’em. 

He’d up the back-stairs, and by G— he would steal ’em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy’s you ne’er can achieve ’em, 

It is not, outdo him—the task is, out-thieve him. 


TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

ELLISLAND, 21ST OCT., 1789. 


Wow, but your letter made me 
vauntie I 

And are ye hale, and weel, and 
cantie ? 

I kenn’d it still your wee bit jauntie 
Wad bring ye to‘ 

Lord send you aye as weel’s I want 

ye, 

And then ye’ll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! 
And never drink be near his drouth! 
He tald mysel by word o’ mouth, 
He’d tak my letter; 

I lippen’d to the chief in trouth. 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study; 

And tir’d o’ sauls to waste his lear on. 
E’en tried the body. 

But what d’ye think, my trusty fier, 
I’m turn'd a gauger—Peace be here 1 


Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 
Ye’ll now disdain me! 

And then my fifty pounds a year 
Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 

Wha by Castalia’s wimpiin’ stream- 
ies, 

Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty 
limbies. 

Ye ken, ye ken. 

That Strang necessity supreme is 
’Mang sons o’ men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o’ 
duddies; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud 
is— 

I need na vaunt. 

But I’ll sued besoms—thraw saugh 
woodies. 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro’ this war Id o’ caret 

I’m weary sick o’t late and air! 






PROLOGUE. 


173 


Not but I hae a richer share 
Than monie ithers; 

But why should ae man better fare, 
And a’ men brithers ? 


Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the 
van. 

Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! 

And let us mind, faint heart ne’er 
wan 

A lady fair; 

Wha does the utmost that he can. 
Will whyles do mair. 


But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 
To weans and wife. 

That’s the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 

I wat she is a daintie chuckie. 

As e’er tread clay! 

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie. 
I’m yours for aye. 

Robert Burns. 


PROLOGUE,! 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW YEAR’S DAY EVENING. [1790.1 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity 
Tho’, by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home; 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new-year! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: 

The sage grave ancient cough’d, and bade me say, 

“ You’re one year older this important day.” 

If wiser too—^lie hinted some suggestion. 

But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 

He bade me on you press this one word—“Think! ” 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, 

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit. 

To you the dotard has a deal to say. 

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle. 

That the first blow is ever half the battle; 

That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch him. 

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; 

That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 

You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair, 

Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care! 

To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 

And humbly begs you’ll mind the important Now / 


* In writing to his brother Gilbert, 11th January, 1790, Burns says;— 

“ We have got a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen them 
an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, 'wrote to me by the manager of the 
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New Year’s Day 
evening, I gave him the following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause.” 





174 


ON THE LATE MISS BURNET. 


To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavors. 
With grateful pride we own your many favors; 
And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it. 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 


ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET,* 

OF MONBODDO. 


Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 

Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow, 

As that which laid th’ accomplish’d Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

And by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer’s pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 

Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Y e cease to charm—Eliza is no more! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix’d with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor’d; 

Ye rugged cliffs o’erhanging dreary glens, 

To you 1 fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, 

And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty’s pride. 

And virtue’s light, that beams beyond the spheres: 

But like the sun eclips’d at morning tide. 

Thou left’st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent’s heart that nestled fond in thee. 

That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree. 

So from it ravish’d, leaves it bleak and bare. 

*Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord Monboddo, celebrated in the Address to Edin¬ 
burgh. This elegy seems to have cost the poet considerable trouble. In a letter to 
Mr. Cunningham, January, 1791, he says:—“1 have these several months been ham¬ 
mering at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. 1 have got, 
and can get, no farther than the following fragment.” 




TO A GENTLEMAN. 


175 


THE FOLLOWING POEM^ WAS WRITTEN 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE, 


Kind Sii, I’ve read your paper 
through. 

And, faith, to me, ’twas really new! 

How guess’d ye, Sir, what maist I 
wanted ? 

This monie a day I’ve grain’d and 
gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was 
brewin’; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were 
doin’; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor 
Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians c*nd the Turks; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

' Would play anither Charles the 
Twalt; 

If Denmark, any body spak o’t; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t; 

How cut-throat.Prussian blades were 
hingin; 

How libbet Italy was singin; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin aught amiss: 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain’s court, kept up the game; 

How royal George, the Lord leuk 
o’er him! 

Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; 


How daddie Burke the plea was 
cookin, 

If Warren Hastings’ neck was 
yeukin; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were 
rax’d. 

Or if bare a-s yet were tax’d; 

The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera- 
girls; 

If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies’ tails; 

Or if he was grown oughtlinsdouser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser.— 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And, but for you, I might despair’d 
of. 

So gratefu’, back your news I send 
you. 

And pray a’ guid things may attend 
you! 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 

Remonstrance to the Gentleman to 
whom the foregoing poem was 
addressed. 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 

Are often negleckit, ye ken; 

For instance, your sheet, man, 
(Though glad I’m to see’t, man,) 

I get it no ae day in ten.—R. B. 


LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.2 


Tms wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 
October twenty-third, 

A ne’er to be forgotten day, 

Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner’d wi’ a Lord. 


I’ve been at druken writers’ feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly 
priests, 

Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken; 
I’ve even join’d the honor’d jorum. 


* This ^istle is supposed to have been sent to Mr. Peter Stuart, of the Star news¬ 
paper. From the remonstrance which follows it would seem that the newspaper 
did not arrive with the punctuality which was desired. 

* Basil William, Lord Daer, son of the Earl of Selkirk, died in 1794, in his thirty- 
second year. Burns met him at Professor Dugald Stewart’s villa at Catrine. 






THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 


176 


When mighty Squireships of the 
quorum 

Their hydra drouth did slokeu. 


But wi’ a Lord—stand out my shin ; 
A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son, 

Up higher yet, my bonnet! 
And sic a Lord—lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’, 

As I look o’er my sonnet. 


But, O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! 
To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r, 
And how he star’d and stam¬ 
mer’d. 

When goavan, as if led wi’ branks, 
An’ stumpin on his ploughman 
shanks, 

He in the parlor hammer'd. 


I sidling shelter’d in a nook. 

An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look. 
Like some portentous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee. 
An’ (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 
The arrogant assuming; 

The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 
Mair than an honest plough¬ 
man. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 
One rank as weel’s another 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 
For he but meets a brother. 


THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY ^■.1SS FONTENELLE ‘ ON BER BENEFIT-NIGHT. [NOV. 26, 1792.1 

While Europe’s eye is fixed on mighty things. 

The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; 

While quacks of State much each produce his plan, 

And even children lisp The Rights of Man; 

Amid the mighty fuss just let me mention. 

The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the Sexes’ intermix'd connexion. 

One sacred Right of Woman is, Protection.— 

The tender flower that lifts its head, elate. 

Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, 

Sunk on the earth, defac’d its lovely form. 

Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm. 

Our second Right—but needless here is caution. 

To keep that Right inviolate’s the fashion. 

Each man of sense has it so full before him. 

He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis Decorum. 

There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days, 

A time, when rough rude men had naughty ways; 

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot. 

Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet!— 

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled. 

Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred! 

I Miss Fontenelle was an actress at the Dumfries’ Theatre. In sending her the 
address, Burns writes : “ Will the foregoing lines be of any service to you in your 
approaching benefit-night V If they will, I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore; I know they have no great merit; but though they 
should add but little to the entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness 
of an opportunity to declare how much I have the honor to be, etc.” 




MISS FONTENELLE. 


177 


Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 

Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That Right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration 1 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move; 

There taste that life of life—immortal love.— 

Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs, 
’Gainst such •'n host what flinty savage dares— 

When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 

Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? 

Then truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions! 

Let Majesty your first attention summon. 

Ah! gaira! The Majesty of Woman! 


ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE THEATER, DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favor. 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 

So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; 

And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted, 

“Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes, 

“I know your bent—these are no laughing times: 

Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears— 

Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears ? 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence. 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

Waving on high the desolating brand. 

Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land ? ” 

I could no more—askance the creature eyeing. 

D’ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 

I’ll laugh, that’s poz—nay, more, the world shall know it; 
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet! 

Firm as my creed. Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief. 

That Misery’s another word for Grief; 

I also think—so may I be a bride! 

That’s so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 

Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye, 

Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive— 

To make three guineas do the work of five: 

Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch! 

Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich. 





178 


POEMS. 


Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 

Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove: 

Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck--- 
Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap; 

Wouldst thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf ? 
Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself: 

Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 

And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise: 

And as we’re merry, may we still be wise. 


VERSES TO A YOUNG LYDY,* 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join’d, 

Accept the gift; tho’ humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among! 

But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 

Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song! 

% 

Or Pity’s notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; 

While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals 1 


POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY 2 


Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d! 
In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae 
swerv’d 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d 
’Mang heaps o’ clavers; 
And ocli! owre aft thy joes hae 
starv’d, 

’Mid a' thy favors! 


Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump’s heroic 
clang, 

And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd- 
sang 

But wi’ miscarriage ? 


‘ Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, July, 1794 ; “ I have presented a copy of your songs to 
the daughter or a much-honored friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. [ wrote, on 
the blank side of the title-page, the following address to the young lady.” 

* Gilbert Burns doubted whether the Poem on Pastoral Poetry was written by his 
brother. Pew readers, we fancy, can have any doubt on the matter. Burns is, unques¬ 
tionably, the author. The whole poem is full of lines which are ” like autographs,” 
and the four closing stanzas are in the Poet’s best manner. 






POEMS. 


179 


In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives; 
Eschylus’ pen Will Shakespeare 
drives; 

Wee Pope, the knurlin, ’till him rives 
Horatian fame; 

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, sur¬ 
vives 

Even Sappho’s flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s 
catches; 

Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 
patches 

O’ heathen tatters: 

I pass by bunders, nameless wretches, 
That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o’ wit and lear, 

Will nane the Shepherd’s whistle 
mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 
And rural grace; 

And wi’ the far fam’d Grecian share 
A rival place ? 

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan— 
There’s ane; come forrit, honest 
Allan 1 

Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 
A chiel sae clever; 


The teeth o’ Time may knaw Tan- 
tallan. 

But thou’s for ever! 

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines; 

Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtles 
twines, 

Where Philomel, 

While nightly breezes sweep tha 
vines. 

Her griefs will tell! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 

Where bonnie lasses bleach their 
Claes; 

Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi’ hawthorns gray, 

Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s 
lays 

At close o’ day. 

Thy rural loves are nature’s sel’; 

Nae bombast spates 0 ’ nonsense swell; 

Nae snap conceits; but that sweet 
spell 

O’ witchin’ love; 

That charm that can the strongest 
quell,— 

The sternest move. 


WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF THE LAST 
EDITION OF HIS POEMS, ^ 


PRESENTED TO THE LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED 
UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS. 


Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young 
fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 

Nor with unwilling ear attend 
The moralizing Muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and 
charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 


(A world ’gainst peace in constant 
arms 

To join the friendly few.) 

Since, thy gay morn of life o’ercast. 
Chill came the tempest’s lower, 
(And ne'er misfortune’s eastern 
blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 


With reference to these verses Burns, in 1795, wrote to Mr. Thomson • “ Written on 
the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the lady whom, 
in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real 
friendship, I have so often sung under the name of Chloris.” The lady was Miss Jean 
Lorimer, daughter of a farmer residing at some little distance from Dumfries. Chloris 
was the most unfortunate of alt Burns’s heroines. While very young she eloped with a 

g entleman named Whelpdale, and was shortly after deserted by him. She died in 1831, 
aving lived the greater portion of her life in penury. 






i8o 


TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. 


Since life’s gay scenes must charm no 
more, 

Still much is left behind; 

Still nobler wealth hast thou in store— 
The comforts of the mind! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honor’s part; 


And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship’s truest heart. 


The joys refin’d of sense and taste. 
With every muse to rove; 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 


POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,i 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD’S PICTURE.* 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love, was the mark of a true heart, 

But now ’tis despis’d and neglected. 

Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal; 

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

Still more, if that wand’rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever’d on a throne; 

My fathers have fallen to right it, 

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 

Their title’s avow’d by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss. 

That gave us the Hanover stem ? 

It bringing them over w^as lucky for us, 

I’m sure ’twas as lucky for them. 

But, loyalty, truce! we’re on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound. 

To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer. 

i Mr. Tytler had published au '* Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the Evidence 
against Mary Queen of Scots.” 

* An artist, named Miers, was then practising in Edinburgh as a maker of silhouette 
portraits. Burns sat to him, and to Mr. Tytler he forwarded one of Miers’s perform¬ 
ances. 




ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE. 


I8l 


Now life’s chilly evening dim shades in your eye, 
And ushers the long dreary night; 

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 
Your course to the latest is bright. 


SKETCH. 1—NEW-YEAR DAY. [1790.] 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 


This day Time winds th’ exhausted 
chain. 

To run the twelvemonth’s length 
again • 

I see the old, bald pated fellow. 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. 
Adjust’the unimpair’d machine 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press. 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major’s 2 with the 
houndSf 

The happy tenants share his rounds; 
Coila’s fair Rachel’s care ^ to-day. 
And blooming Keith’s ^ engaged with 
Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute bor 
row— 

—That grandchild’s cap will do to¬ 
morrow— 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day’s propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight de¬ 
liver ? 

‘^Another year has gone forever,” 
And what is this day’s strong sug¬ 
gestion ? 

“The passing moment’s all we rest 
on! ” 


Rest on—for what ? what do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 
Will Time, amus’d with proverb’d 
lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may, a few year's must, 
Repose us in the silent dust; 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes—all such reasonings are amiss! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
And many a message from* the skies. 
That something in us never dies; 
That on this frail, uncertain state 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery’s woful night.— 
Since then, my honor’d, first of 
friends, 

On this poor being all depends; 

Let us th’ important Now employ. 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho’ you, with days and honors 
crown’d. 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight—life’s sorrows to repulse; 

A sight—pale Envy to convulse;) 
Others may claim your chief regard: 
Yourself, you wait your bright re¬ 
ward. 


EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, 

AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crocliallan® came. 

The old cock’d hat, the gray surtout, the same; 

His bristling beard just rising in its might, 

’Twas four long nights and days to shaving night; 

' This sketch is descriptive of the family of Mr. Dunlop, 4>f Dunlop. 

* Afterwards General Dunlop, of Dunlop. 

* Miss Rachel Dunlop was making a sketch of Coila. 

* Miss Keith Dunlop, the youngest daughter, 

, ® Burns and Smelhe were members of a club in Edinburgh called the Crochallan 
Fencibles. • 





i 82 


MONODY ON A LADY. 


His uncomb’d grizzly locks wild staring, thatch’d 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d. 
Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting, rude, 

His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 


INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR 

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1796. 

Tnou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d; 

Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave. 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 

MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE.i 

How cold is that bosom wnieh folly once fired. 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd 1 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir’d. 

How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen’d! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest affection remov’d; 

How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov’d. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: 

But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull from Maria’s cold bier. 

We’ll search thro’ the garden tor each silly flower. 

We’ll roam through the forest for each idle weed; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 

For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed. 

We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; 

There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 

What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam: 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 

Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 

‘ Mrs. Riddel, of Woodley Park, was the lady satirized in these verses. Dr. Currie, in 
printing thei*!, substituted “ Eliza ” for Maria. 



ON MRS. RIDDEL’S BIRTHDAY. 


183 


SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., 
OF GLENRIDDEL. 


{April, 1794] 

No more ye warblers of the wood—no more! 

Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar. 


How can ye charm, ye flow’rs, with all your dyes? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the uotes of woe! 

And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier. 

The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer. 

Is in his “ narrow house'’ for ever darkly low. 


Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet; 
Me, mem’ry of my loss will only meet. 


IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL’S BIRTHDAY, 
NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 


Old Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer pre- 
ferr’d,— 

“ What have I done of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 

My cheerless suns no pleasure know, 
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow, 
My dismal months no joys are crown¬ 
ing. 

Butspleeny English, hanging,drown¬ 
ing. 


Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 

To counterbalance all this evil, 

Give me, and I’ve no more to say, 

Give me Maria’s natal day! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich 
me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot 
match me; ” 

“’Tisdone!'’ says Jove; so ends my 
story, 

And Winter once rejoic’d in glory. 


TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, 

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. [JUNE 26tH, 1796.] 


Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the Poet’s 
prayer— 

That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name . 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 


And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill—but chief, man’s felon snare: 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward. 
So prays thy faithful friend, the 
Bard. 


• Miss Jessie Lewars attended Burns in his last illness. 







TO MR. SYME. 


184 


VERSES 


WRITTEN UNDER 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 
Wad on thy worth be pressin’; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh! that tenderness forbear, 
Though ’twad my sorrows lessen. 


My morning raise sae clear and fair, 
I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever! 


VIOLENT GRIEF. 

You think I’m glad; oh, I pay weel^ 
For a’ the joy I borrow, 

In solitude—then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel’ conceal 
My deeply-ranklin’ sorrow. 

Farewell! within thy bosom free 
A sigh may whiles awaken; 

A tear may wet thy laughin’ ee. 

For Scotia’s son—ance gay like thee— 
Now hopeless, comfortless, for- 
saken! 


EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME,i 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, 

AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 

nth December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not. 

And cook’ry the first in the nation; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 


TO MR. SY'TdE, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavor of thy wit, 
’Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e’en for Syme were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 


SONNET, 

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 85TH JANUARY, 
1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR. 

Seng on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; 

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: 

See agM Winter, ’mid his surly reign. 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow’d brow. 

1 Mr. John Syme was one of the Poet’s constant companions. He possessed great 
talent, and Dr. Currie wished him to undertake the editing of the Poets life and writings. 






TO A GENTLEMAN. 


185 


So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,’ 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 

What wealth could never give nor take away! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 

The mite high Heaven bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share. 

POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. [DECEMBER, 1795.J 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or 
steal; 

Alake, alake, the meikle Deil 

Wi’ a’ his witches 
Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it. 

That one pound one, I sairly want it: 

If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind; 

And while my heart wi’ life-blood 
dunted, 

I’d bear’t in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moan¬ 
ing, 

To see the new come laden, groaning, 

Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin 
To thee and thine; 

Domestic peace and comforts crown¬ 
ing 

The hale design. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye’ve heard this while how I’ve been 
licket. 

And by fell death was nearly nicket: 
Grim loon! he gat me by the fecket. 
And sairme sheuk; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 
And turn’d a neuk. 

But by that health. I’ve got a share 
o’t. 

And by that life, I’m promis’d mair 
o’t. 

My heal and weal I’ll take a care o’t 
A tentier way • 

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o’t. 
For ance and aye. 


SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.^ 


The friend whom wild from wisdom’s 
way 

The fumes of wine infuriate send; 
(Not moony madness more astray;) 
Who but deplores that hapless 
friend ? 


Mine w^as th’ • insensate frenzied 
part. 

Ah why should I such scenes out¬ 
live ? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 

’Tis thine to pity and forgive. 

wtiom these 


1 Mr. Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauchline, was believed to be the gentleman to 
lines were addressed. 






TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


186 


POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. 


My honor’d Colonel, deep I feel 
Y our interest in the Poet’s weal; 

Ah! now sma’ heart hae I to speel 
The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness 
spare it; 

And fortune favor worth and merit, 
As they deserve 

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret 
Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick 
her. 

And in paste gems and fripp’ry deck 
her, 

Oh! flick’ring, feeble, and unsicker 
I’ve found her still, 

Aye wav’ring like the willow wicker, 
’Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld 
Satan, 

Watches, like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on 
Wi’ felon ire; 

Syne, whip! his tail ye’ll ne’er cast 
saut on, 

He’s off like fire. 


Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair, 

First showing us the tempting 
ware, 

Bright wine and bonnie lasses rare, 
To put us daft; 

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 
O’ hell’s damn’d waft. 


Poor man, the fly, aft bizzies by, 

As aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn’d elbow yeuks wi’ 
joy. 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already’ in thy fancy’s eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 


Soon heels-o’er-gowdie! in he gangs. 
And like a sheep head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 
And murd’ring wrestle. 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 
A gibbet’s tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting 
drivel, "" 

Abjuring a’ intentions evil, 

I quat my pen: 

The Lord preserve us frae the Devil 1 
Amen! amen! 


TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOR. 


I CALL no Goddess to inspire my 
strains, 

A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that 
feigns; 

Friend of my life! my ardent spirit 
burns, 

And all the tribute of my heart re¬ 
turns, 

For boons recorded, goodness ever 
new, 

The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 


Thou orb of day! thou other paler 
light! 

And all ye many sparkling stars of 
night; 

If aught'that giver from my mind 
efface; 

If I that giver’s bounty e'er dis- 
grace; 

Then roll to me, along your wand- 
’ring spheres. 

Only to number out a villain’s years! 





VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 


187 . 


EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 


An honest man here lies at rest, 

As e’er God with his image 
blest; 

The friend of man, the friend of 
truth ; 

The friend of age, and guide of 
youth; 


Few hearts like his, with virtue 
warm’d. 

Few hearts with knowledge so in¬ 
form’d 

If there’s another world, he lives in 
bliss; 

If there is none, he made the best of 
this. 


VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK,i 

ADDRESSED TO MR. CREECH, 13th MAY, 1787. 


Auld chuckie Reekie’s sair distrest, 
Down droops her auce weel burnish’t 
crest, 

Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest 
Can yield ava. 

Her darling bird that she lo’es best, 
Willie’s awa! 

O Willie was a witty wight. 

And had o’ things an unco slight; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

An’ trig an’ braw; 

But now they’ll busk her like <a 
fright, 

Willie’s awa! 

The stiffest o’ them a’ he bow’d; 

The bauldest o' them a’ he cow’d; 
They durst nae mair than he allow’d. 
That was a law: 

We’ve lost a birkie w'eel worth gowd, 
Willie’s awa! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and 
fools, 

Frae colleges and boarding-schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock- 
stools 

In glen or shaw; 

He wha could brush them down to 
mools, 

Willie’s awa! 

The brethren o’ the Commerce-Chau* 
mer 

May mourn their loss wi’ doofu’ 
clamor, 


He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a'; 

I fear they’ll now mak mony a stam¬ 
mer 

Willie's awa! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour. 

And toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw. 

The adjutant o’ a’ the core, 

Willie’s awa! 

Now worthy Gregory’s Latin face, 
Tytler’s and Greenfield’s modest 
grace; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne’er saw; 
They a’ maun meet some ither place, 
Willie’s awa! 

Poor Burns e’en Scotch drink canna 
quicken. 

He cheeps like some bewilder’d 
chicken 

Scar’d frae its minnie and the cleckin 
By hoodie-craw; 

Grief’s gien his heart an unco’ kickin’, 
Willie’s awa! 


Now ev’ry sour-mou’d grinnin’ bleb 
lurn. 

And Calvin’s folk, are fit to fell 
him ; 


‘ In enclosing these verses to Mr Creech, Burns writes : “ The enclosed I have just 
wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day’s 
riding.” 


18—Burns—I 






i88 


A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 


And self-conceited critic skellum 

Ills quill may draw; 
He wha could brawlie ward their 
bellum, 

Willie’s awa! 


Up wimpling stately Tweed I’ve 
sped, 

And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 

And Ettrick banks now roaring 
red, 

While tempest blaw, 
But every joy and pleasure’s fled, 
Willie’s awa! 


May I be Slander’s common speech; 
A text for infamy to preach; 

And lastly, streekit out to bleach 
In winter snaw; 

When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 
Tho’ far awa! 

May never wicked Fortune touzle 
Him! 

May never wicked men bamboozle 
him! 

Until a pow as auld’s Methusalem 
He canty claw! 

Then to the blessed. New Jerusalem 
Fleet wing awa! 

THE TOMBSTONE 


INSCRIPTION ON 


ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 


Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born September 5th, 1751 — 
Died 16th October, 1774." 


No sculptur’d marble here, nor pompous lay, 

“No storied urn nor animated bust;” 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way 
To pour her sorrows o’er her Poet’s dust. 

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate, 
Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fir’d, 

Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State, 

And thankless starv’d what they so much admir’d. 

This humble tribute with a tear he gives, 

A brother Bard, he can no more bestow; 

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 

A nobler monument than Art can show. 


A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 


O THOU, who kindly dost provide 
For every creature’s want! 

We bless thee, God of Nature wide. 
For all thy goodness lent: 


And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 
May never worse be sent; 

But whether granted, or denied, 
Lord, bless us with content! 

Amen! 


A VERSE 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE MASTER OP THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er, 

A time that surely shall come; 

In Heaven itself I’ll ask no more. 

Than just a Highland welcome. 





FRAGMENT OF AN ODE. 


189 


LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 

Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 

Where is that soul of freedom led ? 

Immingled with the mighty dead! 

Beneath the hallow’d turf where Wallace lies 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep, 

Nor give the coward secrat breath. 

Is this the power in Freedom’s war. 

That wont to biu the battle rage ? 

Behold that eye which shot Immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot’;: proudest bearing. 

That arm which, nerved with thundering fate. 
Brav’d usurpation’s boldest daring I 
One quench’d in darkness like the sinking star, 

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age. 

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE 

TO THE MEMORY OP PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART.], 

False flatterer, Hope, away! 

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day 
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more; 

And owning Heaven’s mysterious sway, 
Submissive low adore. 

Ye honor’d mighty dead! 

Who nobly perish’d in the glorious cause. 

Your king, your country, and her laws! 

From great Dundee who smiling victory led. 
And fell a martyr in her arms 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 

To bold Balmerino’s undying name. 

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven’s high flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim 

Nor unavenged your fate shall be. 

It only lags the fatal hour; 

Your blood shall with incessant cry 
Awake at last th’ unsparing power; 

As from the clifl, with thundering course. 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 

With doubling speed and gathering force. 

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the valeJ 
So vengeance . 



igO ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET. 


ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUXA 


Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him: 

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 
E’er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash’t 
him, 

Except the moment that they crush’t 
him; 

For sune as chance or fate had husht 
’em, 


Tho’ e’er sae short, 

Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lasht 
’em, 

And thought it sport. 


Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and 
stark, 

Yet that was never Robin’s mark 
To mak a man; 

But tell him, he was learn’d and dark, 
Ye roos’d him than! 


ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET. 

BY THE GUIDWIFE OF W.AUCHOPE-HOUSE. [1787.] 


Guidwife, 

I MiKD it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young and 
blate, 

An’ first could thresh the barn. 

Or baud a j'^okin at the pleugh, 

An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough. 
Yet unco proud to learn: 

When first amang the yellow corn 
A man I reckon’d was, 

And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 

Still shearing, and clearing 
The tithei stocked raw, 

Wi’ claivers, an haivers. 
Wearing the day awa: 

Ev’n then a wish, (1 mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 
Shall strongly heave my breast; 
That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake, 
Someusefu’ plan, orbeukcouldmake. 
Or sing a sang at least. 

The rough bur-thistle, spreading 
wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 

I turn’d the weeder-clips aside. 

An’ spar’d the symbol dear. 


No nation, no station, 

My envy e’er could raise; 

A Scot still, but blot still, 

I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o’ sang 
In formless jumble, right an’ wrang, 
Wild floated in my brain; 

Till on that har’st I said before. 

My partner in the merry core, 

She rous’d the forming strain: 

1 see her yet, the sonsie quean. 

That lighted up my jingle, 

Her witching smile, her pauky een. 
That gart my heart-strings tingle; 
I fired, inspired. 

At ev’ry kindling keek. 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi’ merry dance in winter days. 

An’ we to share in common. 

The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o’ life, the heav’n below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 
Be mindfu’ o’ your mither: 


J Ruisseaux : a play upon the Poet’s own name. 

2 Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope, Roxburghshire, had sent a rhymed epistle to Burns disnlav- 
ing considerable vigor of thought and neatness of expression. 





TO J. LAPRAIK. 


I9I 


She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye’re connected with her. 
Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men. 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 

Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 
Thanks to you for your line: 

The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 


By me should gratefully be ware; 

’Twad please me to the nine. 

I’d be more vauntie o’ my hap. 
Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap. 

Or proud imperial purple. 
Farewell then, lang heal then, 
An’ plenty be your fa’. 

May losses and crosses 
Ne’er at your hallan ca’. 
Marche 1787, 


TO J. LAPRAIK. 


SEPT. 13th, 1785. 


Quid speed an’ furderto you, Johny, 
Guid health, hale ban’s, and weather 
bonnie 

Now when ye’re nickan down fu’ cany 
The staff o’ bread. 

May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y 
To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an’ hags 
Like drivin’ wrack; 

But may the tapmast grain that wags 
Come to the sack. 

I’m bizzie too, an’ skelpin’ at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat 
it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 
Wi’ muckle wark. 

An’ took my jocteleg an' whatt it. 
Like onie clerk. 

It’s now twa month that I’m your 
debtor. 

For your braw, nameless, dateless 
letter. 

Abusin’ me for harsh ill-nature 
On holy men. 

While Deil a hair yoursel’ ye’re bet¬ 
ter. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let’s sing about our noble sels; 


We’ll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 
To help, or roose us, 

But browster wives an’ whisky stills. 
They are the Muses. 

Your friendship. Sir, I winna quat it. 
An’ if ye make objections at it. 

Then han’ in nieve some day we’ll 
knot it. 

An’ witness take. 

An’ when wi’ Usquebae we’ve wat it 
It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar’d 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
An’ a’ the vittel in the yard. 

An theekit right, 

I mean your ingle-side to guard 
Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 
Shall make us baith sae blithe an 
witty 

Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty. 
An’ be as canty 

As ye were nine years less than 
thretty 

Sweet ane an’ twenty! 

But stocks are cowpet wi’ the blast. 
An’ now the siun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 
An’ quit my chanter, 

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter 





192 


THE TWA HERDS. 


THE TWA HERDS. [April, 1785.] 

Blockheads with reason wicked lOits abhor. 

But Fool with Fool is barbarous civil war. 

Pope. 


O a’ ye pious godly flocks, 

Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 

Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 
Or worrying tykes ? 

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks. 
About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a’ the wast. 
That e’er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty summers past, 
O dool to tell! 

Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 
Atween themsel. 

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, 
How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye’ll see how New-light herds will 
whistle. 

And think it fine! 

The Lord’s cause ne’er gat sic a 
twistle, 

Sin’ I hae min’. 

0, Sirs, whae’er wad hae expeckit, 
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 

Ye wha were ne’er by lairds re- 
speckit. 

To wear the plaid. 

But by the brutes themselves eleckit 
To be their guide. 

What flock wi’ Hoodie’s flock could 
rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison’d soor Arminian stank 
He let them taste, 

Frae Calvin’s well, aye clear, they 
drank: 

O’ sic a feast! 

Thethummart wil’-cat, brock and tod, 
AVeel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood. 
He smell’d their ilka hole and road, 
Baith out and in, 

And weel he lik’d to shed their bluid. 
And sell their skin. 


AYhat herd like Russel tell’d his tale. 
His voice was heard thro’ muir and 
dale, 

He kend the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail. 
O’er a’ the height. 

And saw gin they were sick or hale, 
At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New-light herds could nicely 
drub. 

Or pay their skin. 

Could shake them owre the burning 
dub. 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa—0! do I live to see’t. 

Sic famous twa should disagreet. 

An’ names, like “villain,” “hypo¬ 
crite,” 

Ilk ither gi’en. 

While New-light herds wi’ laughin’ 
spite. 

Say, “ neither’s liein ”1 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld. 
There’s Duncan deep, and Peebles 
shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, hot and 
cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we’re beset. 
There’s scarce a new herd that we 
get. 

But comes frae ’mang that cursed set 
I winna name, 

I hope frae heaven to see them yet 
In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae, 
M‘Gill has wrought us meikle wae. 
And that curs’d rascal ca’d M‘Quhae, 
And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and bla^ 
Wi’ vengefu’ paws. 




TO THE REV. JOHN M‘MATH. 


193 


Auld Wodrow lang has hatch’d mis¬ 
chief, 

We thought aye death wad bring re¬ 
lief, 

But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 

A chiel wha’ll soundly bull our beef: 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 

Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There’s Smith for ane, 

I doubt he’s but a gray nick quill. 
And that ye’ll tin’. 

• 

01 a’ ye flocks, owre a’ the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 
Come join your counsels and your 
skills. 


To cowe the lairds, 

And get the brutes the power them* 
sels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning in a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca’d Common Sense 
That bites sae sair. 

Be banish’d owre the seas to France: 
Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw’s and D’rymple’s elo¬ 
quence, 

M'Gill’s close nervous excellence, 
IVTQuhae’s pathetic manly sense. 
And guid M'Math, 

Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can 
glance. 

May a’ pack afl[. 


TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 


ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept, nth, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow’r 
To shun the bitter blaudin’ show’r. 

Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time. 

To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My Musie*, tir’d wi’ monie a sonnet 
On gown, an’ ban, an’ douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she’s done it. 

Lest they shou’d blame her. 

An’ rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 


I own ’twas rash, and rather hardy, 

That I, a simple countra bardie, 

Shou’d meddle wi’ a pack so sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me. 

Can easy, wi’ a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces. 

Their sighin’, cantin’ grace-proud faces, 

Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces. 

Their raxin’ conscience, 

Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces 
Waur nor their nonsense. 

^ The Rev, Mr. M’Math was, when Burns addressed him, assistant and successor to 
the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of Tarbolton. He is said to have been an excellent 
preacher. 







194 


TO THE REV. JOHN M‘MATH. 


There’s Gauu, raisca’t waiir than a b^st, 

Wha has mair honor in his breast 
Than monie scores as guid’s the priest 
Wha sae abus’d him; 

An’ may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they’ve us’d him? 


See him, the poor man’s friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an’ deed, 

An’ shall his fame an’ honor bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An’ no a Muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 


O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 

I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts. 
An’ tell aloud 
Their jugglin’ hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 


God knows, I’m no the thing I shou’d be. 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 

But, twenty times, I rather would be 
An atheist clean. 

Than under gospel colors hid be, 

Just for a screen. 


An honest man may like a glass, 

An honest man may like a lass. 

But mean revenge, an’ malice fause, 
He’ll still disdain. 
An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws, 
Like some we ken. 


They tak religion in their mouth; 

They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth, 
For what ? to gie their malice skouth 
On some puir wight, 
An’ hunt him down, o’er right an’ ruth, 
To ruin straight; 


All hail, Religion I maid divine! 

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 

Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne’er defame thee. 




HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. 


195 


Tho’ blotcht an’ foul wi’ monie a stain, 

An’ far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi’ trembling voice I tune my strain 
To join wi’ those, 

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 
In spite 0 ’ foes: 

In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs. 

In spite of undermining jobs, 

In spite o’ dark banditti stabs 

At worth an’ merit, 

By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes. 

But hellish spirit. 

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground 1 
Within thy pres^terial bound, 

A candid lib’ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 

As men, as Christians too, renown’d. 

An’ manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam’d. 

Sir, in that circle you are fam’d; 

An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d; 

(Which gies you honor,) 

Even, Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d. 

An’ winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en. 

An’ if impertinent I’ve been. 

Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang’d ye. 


HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.^ 


O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 
dwell, 

Wha, as it pleases best thysel’. 

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, 
A’ for thy glory, 

And no for onie guid or ill 

They’ve done afore thee I 

I bless and praise thy matchless 
might. 

Whan thousands thou hast left in 
night, 


That 1 am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts an’ grace, 

A burnin an’ a shinin’ light. 

To a’ this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 

That I should get sic exaltation ? 

I, wha deserve sic just damnation, 
For broken laws, 

Five thousand years ’fore my crea¬ 
tion, 

Thro’ Adam’s cause. 


’ “ Holy Willie” was William Fisher, the leading elder in the Rev. Mr. Auld’s session. 
He was afterwards found guilty of embezzling money from the church offerings, and 
died in a ditch, into which he had fallen when drunk. 






196 


HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. 


When frae my mither’s womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 
In burnin’ lake. 

Where damned devils roar and yell. 
Chain’d to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show thy grace is great and ample; 
I’m here a pillar in thy temple. 
Strong as a rock, 

A guide, a buckler, an example 
To a’ thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
When drinkers drink, and swearers 
swear. 

And singin there and dancing here, 
Wi’ great an’ sma’; 

For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a’. 

But yet, O Lord! confess I must. 

At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust. 
An’ sometimes too, wi’ warldly trust. 
Vile self gets in; 

But thou remembers we are dust, 
Defil’d in sin. 

O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi’ 
Meg— 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 

01 may it ne’er be a livin plague 
To my dishonor. 

An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg 
Again upon her. 

Besides I farther maun allow, 

Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow; 
But Lord, that Friday I was fou. 
When I came near her, 

Or else thou kens thy servant true 
Wad ne’er hae steer’d her. 

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e’en and morn. 

Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

’Cause he’s sae gifted; 

If sae, thy hand maun e’en be borne. 
Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place. 
For here thou hast a chosen race; 


But God confound their stubborn 
face. 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace. 
An’ public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts. 
He drinks, an’ swears, an’ plays at 
cartes. 

Yet has sae monie takin arts, 

Wi’ grit an’ sma’, 

Frae God’s ain priest the people’s 
hearts 

He steals awa’. 

An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore. 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 
O’ laughin at us; 

Curse thou his basket and his store. 
Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r, 
Against that presbyt’ry o’ Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand, Lord, make 
it bare, 

Upo’ their heads; 

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna 
spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongued 
Aiken, 

My very heart and soul are quakin. 
To think how we stood sweatin, 
shakin 

An’ p—d wi’ dread. 

While he, wi’ hingin lips an’ snakin, 
Held up his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try 
him; 

Lord, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by ’em. 
Nor hear their pray’r: 

But, for thy people’s sake, destroy 
’em 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 
Excell’d by nane, 

An’d,’ the glory shall be thine 
Amen, Amen. 





ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL. 


197 


EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 


Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clay 
Taks up its last abode; 

His saul has taen some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun. 
Poor silly body, see him; 

Nae wonder he’s as black’s the grun. 
Observe wha’s standing wi’ him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see. 

Has got him there before ye; 


But baud your nine-tail cat a wee. 
Till ance you’ve heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye have nane; 

Justice, alas! hasgien him o’er. 

And mercy’s day is gane. 

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit; 
Acoof like him wad stain your name 
If it were kent ye did it. 


ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 1 

IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 


Why, ye tenants of the lake. 

For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 

Why disturb your social joys. 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?— 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature’s gifts to all are free: 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave. 
Busy feed, or wanton lave; 

Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow’s shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
AYould be lord of all below; 

Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride. 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow. 
Marking you his prey below. 


In his breast no pity dwells. 

Strong Necessity compels. 

But Man, to whom alone is giv’n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav’n, 
Glories in his heart humane— 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand’ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv’let strays. 

Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on Nature you depend, 

And life’s poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man’s .superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 

On the lofty ether borne, 

Man with all his pow’rs you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs, 

And the foe you cannot brave. 

Scorn at least to be his slave. 


^ Written while Burns was on a visit to Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre. 





198 


EPISTLE TO MR. M‘ADAM. 


TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, 

RECOMMENDING A BOY. 


I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty, 

To warn you bow that Master Tootie, 
Alias Laird M'Gaun,^ 

Was here to lure the lad away 
’Bout whom ye spak the tither day, 
An’ wad hae don’t afE han’; 

But lest he learn the callan tricks. 

As faith I muckle doubt him. 
Like scrapin’ out auld Crummie’s 
nicks, 

An’ tellin’ lies about them; 

As lieve then I’d have then, 
Your clerkship he should 
sair. 

If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough. 

An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ 
rough. 

The boy might learn to 
swear; 

But then wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, 
An’ get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na onie fear. 


Mosgaville^ Map 3, 1786. 

Ye’ll catechize him every quirk, 

An’ shore him weel wi’ hell; 

An’ gar him follow to the kirk-- 

—Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this cornin’ Fri¬ 
day, 

Then please. Sir, to lea’e. Sir, 
The orders wi’ your lady. 


My word of honor I ha’e gi’en. 

In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en. 
To meet the Warld’s worm; 
To try to get the twa to gree. 

An’ name the aides an’ the fee. 

In legal mode an’ form ; 

I ken he weel a snick can draw, 

When simple bodies let him; 
An’ if a Devil be at a’. 

In faith he’s sure to get him. 

To phrase you an’ praise you. 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns. 

The pray’r still, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel— Burns. 


EPISTLE TO MR. M‘ADAM, 

OP CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT 

OF MY POETIC CAREER. 


Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud; 

“ See wha taks notice o’ the Bard! ” 
I lap and cry’d fu’ loud. 

“ Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million; 

I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’, 

I’m roos’d by Craigen-Gillan! ” 

’Twas noble. Sir; ’twas like yoursel. 
To grant your high protection. 


A great man’s smile, ye ken fu' weel, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho’, by his banes wha in a tub 
Match’d Macedonian Sandy! 

On my ain legs, thro’ dirt and dub, 

I independent stand aye.— 

And when those legs to gude, warm 
kail 

Wi’ welcome canna bear me, 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail. 

And liarley-scone shall cheer me. 


Master Tootie was a dealer in cows, who lived in Mauchline. It was his practise to 
disguise the age of his cattle, by polishing away the markings on their horns. 






TO TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 


199 


Heaven spare you lang to kiss the 
breath 

O' monie flow’ry simmers! 

And bless your bonnie lasses baith, 
I’m tald they’re loosome kim- 
mersl 


And God bless young Dunaskin’s 
laird 

The blossom of our gentry! 

And may he wear an auld man’s 
beard 

A credit to his country. 


TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.’ 


Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your News and Review, Sir, I’ve read through and through. Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming; 

The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 


Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers. 
Are j udges of mortar and stone, Sir; 

But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete, 

I’ll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 
Bestow’d on your servant, the Poet ; 

Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun. 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it 1 


VERSES 


INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL’S PICTURE. 


Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? 

And whose that eye of fire? 

And whose that generous princely 
mien 

Even rooted foes admire? 

Stranger, to justly show that brow. 
And mark that eye of fire. 

Would take His hand, whose vernal 
tints 

His other works admire. 


Bright as a cloudless summer sun. 
With stately port he moves; 

His guardian seraph eyes with awe 
The noble ward he loves. 


Among the illustrious Scottish 
sons 

That chief thou may’st discern; 
Mark Scotia’s fond returning eye. 

It dwells upon Glencairn. 


TO TERRAUGHTY,2 ON HIS BIRTHDAYS 


Health to the Maxwells’ vet’ran 
Chief! 

Health, aye unsour’d by care or grief; 
Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf 
This natal morn, 

I see thy life is stuff 0’ prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 


This day thou metes threescore 
eleven. 

And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 
To ilka Poet) 

On thee a tack o’ seven times seven 
Will yet bestow it. 


^ The newspaper contained some strictures on Burns’s poetry. 

* John Maxwell, Esq., of Terraughty and Munches. He died in 1814, aged 94. 






200 


THE VOWELS. 


If envious buckies view wi’ sorrow 
Thy lengthen’d days on this blest 
morrow, 

May desolation’s lang-teetli’d harrow, 
Nine miles an hour, 

Rake them, like Sodom and Gomor¬ 
rah, 

In brunstane stoure— 

But for thy friends, and they are 
monie 

Baith honest men and lassies bonnie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and 
cannie, 


In social glee, 

Wi’ mornings blithe and e’enings 
funny 

Bless them and thee! 

Farewell, auld birkie! Lord be near 
ye. 

And then the Deil he daurna steer 
ye. 

Your friends aye love, your faes aye 
fear ye; 

For me, shame fa’ me, 

If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca’ me. 


TO A LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OP A PAIR OP DRINKING GLASSES. 


Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul. 
And Queen of Poetesses; 
Clarinda, take this little boon. 
This humble pair of glasses. 


And fill them high with generous 
juice. 

As generous as your mind; 


And pledge me in the generous 
toast— 

“ The whole of human kindl ” 


“ To those who love us!”—second 
fill; 

But not to those whom we love; 
Lest we love those who love not us! 
A. third—“ to thee and me, Love! ’* 


THE VOWELS.i 

A TALE. 

’Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply’d, 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapor throws. 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows; 

Upon a time. Sir Abece the great. 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount. 

And call the trembling Vowels to account. 

First enter’d A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 

But ah! deform’d, dishonest to the sight! 

His twisted head look’d backward on his way, 

And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk’d in; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face! 

That name, that well-worn name, and all his own. 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant’s throne! 


1 It is very doubtful whether Burns is the author of this piece published by Cromek. 





PROLOGUE. 


201 


The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound; 

And next, the title following close behind, 

He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign’d. 

The cobweb’d gothic dome resounded, Y1 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain’d reply • 

The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 

And knock’d the groaning vowel to the ground 
In rueful apprehension enter’d O, 

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; 

Th’ Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; 

So grim, deform’d, with horrors entering U, 

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 

The pedant in his left hand clutch’d him fast. 

In helpless infants’ tears he dipp’d his right. 

Baptiz’d him eu, and kick’d him from his sight. 

SKETCH.^ 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. 

And still his precious self his dear delight; 

Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e’er the fairest she he meets; 

A man of fashion too, he made his tour. 

Beam’d vive la bagatelle, et vive I’amour; 

So travel’d monkeys their grimace improve, 

Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies’ love. 

Much specious lore, but little understood; 

Veneering oft outshines the solid wood: 

His solid sense—by inches you must tell. 

But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 

His meddling vanity, a busy fiend. 

Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 

PROLOGUE 

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT-NIGHT, DUMFRIES, [1790.] 

What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on, 

How this new play an’ that new sang is cornin’ ? 

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 

Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? 

For comedy abroad he need na toil, 

A fool and knave are plants of every soil; 

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece; 

> The ‘ Sketch ” is a portion of a work, “ The Poet’s Progress,” which Burns medi¬ 
tated, but of which hardly any portion seems to have ever been written. The immediate 
object of his satire is said to have been his publisher Creech. 




202 


PROLOGUE. 


There’s themes enow in Caledonian story, 

Would show the tragic muse in a’ her glory. 

Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell V 
Where are the Muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce; 

How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword 
’Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after monie a bloody, deathless doing. 

Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of ruin ? 

O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene, 

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! 

Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms 
’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms. 

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival w’oman; 

A woman, tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil, 

As able and as cruel as the devil! 

One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age: 

And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas follow’d to the martial strife. 

Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, ' 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! 

As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land 
Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand; 

Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. 

And where ye justly can commend, commend them; 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 

Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best! 
Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caution 
Ye’ll soon hae Poets o’ the Scottish nation. 

Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack. 

And warsle time an’ lay him on his back! 

For us and for our stage should onie spier, 

“ Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here?” 
' My best leg foremost. I’ll set up my brow. 

We hae the honor to belong to you! 

We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like. 

But like good mithers, shore before ye strike— 

And gratefu’ still I hope ye’ll ever find us. 

For a] the patronage and meikle kindness 
We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets, and ranks: 

God help us I we’re but poor—ye’se get but thanks. 



LAMENT. 


203 


ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788, 

SKETCH. 


For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 

E’en let them die—for that they’re 
born; 

But oh! prodigious to reflec’! 

A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck 1 

O Eighty-eight, in thy sma’ space 

What dire events hae taken place! 

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft 
us! 

In what a pickle thou hast left us 1 
The Spanish empire’s tint a head, 

And my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead! 

The tulzie’s sair ’tween Pitt an’ 
Fox, 

An’ our gudewife’s wee birdy cocks; 

The tane is game, a bludie devil, 

But to the hen-birds unco civil; 

The tither’s something dour o’ tread- 
in’, 

But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden. 
Ye ministers, come mount the 
poupit, 

An’ cry till ye be haerse an’ roupet. 


For Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel, 
And gied you a’ baith gear an’ meal; 
E’en monie a plack, and monie a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een. 
For some o’ you hae tint a frien’; 

In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en 
What ye’ll ne’er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an’ sheep. 
How dowf and daviely they creep, 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E’mbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou’s but a bairn, 
An’ no owre auld, I hope, to learn! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, 
Thou now has got thy daddie’s chair, 
Nae hand-cuff’d, mizzl’d, hap- 
shackl’d Regent, 

But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man.* 
As muckle better as you can. 
January 1 , 1789 . 


VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OP 
FERGUSSON THE POET, 

IN A COPY OP THAT AUTHOR’S WORKS 
PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19TH, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas’d. 

And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! 

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 

By far my elder brother in the Muses, 

With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! 

Why is the Bard unpitied by the world. 

Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 


LAMENT, 

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 

O’er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying. 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave. 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
The storm’s gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 





204 


SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 


Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, 

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov’d native shore; 

Where the flower which bloom’d sweetest in Coila’s green vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary’s no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we’ll wander, 

And smile at the moon’s rimpled face in the wave; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, 

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; 

Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 


DELIA. 

AN ODE. 


Pair the face of orient day. 

Fair the tints of op’ning rose; 

But fairer still my Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark’s wild-warbled lay. 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 


The flower-enamor’d busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss! 

For oh! my soul is parch’d with love! 


ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th’ inconstant blast howl’d thro’ the dark’ning air. 

And hollow whistl’d in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov’d haunts of Scotia’s royal train; 

Or mused where limpid streams, once hallow’d well, 

Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 

Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks. 

The clouds swift-wing’d flew o’er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 

And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 

And ’mong the cliffs disclos’d a stately Form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. 

And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm. 





TO MISS FERRIER. 


205 


Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

’Twas Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d: 

Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe, 

The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers’d that spear, redoubtable in war. 

Reclin’d that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d. 

That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar. 

And brav’d the mighty monarchs of the world.— 

“ My patriot son fills an untimely grave! ” 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried: 

“ Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to save. 
Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride! 

“A weeping country joins a widow’s tear. 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron’s bier. 

And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

“1 saw my sons resume their ancient fire; 

I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow; 

But, ah! how hope is born but to expire! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.— 

“My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung. 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name? 

No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 

And future ages hear his growing fame. 

“And I will join a mother’s tender cares. 

Thro’ future times to make his virtues last. 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs,”— 

She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast. 


TO MISS FERRIER, 1 

ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 


Nae heathen name shall I prefix 
Frae Pindus or Parnassus; 

Auld Reekie dings them a’ to sticks, 
For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove’s tunefu’ dochters three times 
three 

Made Homer deep their debtor; 
But, gi’en the body half an ee. 

Nine Ferriers wad done better! 

Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George’s Street I stoited; 

^ Miss Ferrier, authoress 


A creeping cauld prosaic fog 
My very senses doited. 

Do what I dought to set her free, 
My saul lay in the mire; 

Ye turned a neuk—I saw your ee— 
She took the wing like fire! 

The moumfu’ sang I here enclose. 

In gratitude I send you; 

And wish and pray in rhyme sincere, 
A’ gude things may attend you I 

of Marriage and Destiny. 




2o6 


THE POET’S WELCOME. 


WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF 

OP A. COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS], WHICH I PRESENTED 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 


Once fondly lov’d, and still remember’d dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere ; 
Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows. 


And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more. 
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 

Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar. 


THE POET’S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.‘ 


Thou’s w^elcome, wean! mishanterfa’ 
me, 

If ought of thee, or of thy mammy. 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me 
Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonnie Betty, 

I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, 

As dear an’ near my heart I set thee 
Wi’ as gude will, 

As a’ the priests had seen me get thee 
That’s out o’ hell. 

What tho’ they ca’ me fornicator, 
An’ tease my name in kintra clatter: 
The mair they talk I’m kent the bet¬ 
ter, 

E’en let them clash; 

An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless 
matter 

To gie ane fash. 


Sweet fruit o’ monie a merry dint. 
My funny toil is now a’ tint. 

Sin’ thou came to the warl asklent, 
Which fools may scoff at; 
In my last plack thy part’s be in’t— 
The better hafif o’t. 

An’ if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An’ tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin’ father I’ll be to thee. 

If thou be spar’d; 

Thro’ a’ thy childish years I’ll ee 
thee. 

An' think’t wee! war’d. 

Gude grant that thou may aye in¬ 
herit 

Thy mither’s person, grace, an’merit. 
An’ thy poor worthless daddy’s spirit. 
Without his failins. 

Twill please me mair to hear an’ 
see’t. 

Than stockit maiiins. 


‘ Burns’s illegitimate daughter married Mr. John Bishop, overseer at Poikemmet, 
and died in 1817. She is said to have been strikingly like her father. 




LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT. 


207 


LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 


O Goudtb ) ' terror of tbe Whigs, 

Dread o’ black coats and rev’rend 
wigs. 

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 
Girnin’ looks back, 

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 
Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin’ ’glowrin’ Superstition, 

Waes me! she’s in a sad condition; 

Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state 
physician. 

To see her water; 

Alas! there’s ground o’ great suspi¬ 
cion 

She’ll ne’er get better. 


Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. 
But now she’s got an unco’ ripple; 


Haste, gie her name up i’ the chapel. 
Nigh unto death, 

See how she fetches at the thrapple. 
An’ gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm’s past redemption, 

Gaen in a galloping consumption. 
Not a’ the quacks, with a’ their 
gumption. 

Will ever mend her. 

Her feeble pulse gies strong pre¬ 
sumption. 

Death soon will end her. 

Tis you and Taylor 2 are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord’s ain folks gat leave, 
A toom tar barrel 
An’ twa red peats wad send relief. 
An’ end the quarrel. 


LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, GLENCONNER.8 


Auld comrade dear and brither sin¬ 
ner, 

How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner, 
How do you this blae eastlin wind. 
That’s like to blaw a body blind? 
For me, my faculties are frozen. 

My dearest member nearly dozen’d. 
I’ve sentyou here by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling. 
An’ Reid, to common sense appeal¬ 
ing. 

Philosophers have fought an’ w^ran- 
gled, 

An’ meikle Greek an’ Latin mangled, 
Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d. 

An’ in the depth of Science mir’d. 


To common sense they now appeal. 
What wives an’ wabsters see an, 
feel. 

But, hark ye, friend, 1 charge you 
strictly. 

Peruse them, an’ return them quickly 
For now I’m grown sae cursed douse, 
1 pray an’ ponder butt the house, 

]\Iy shins, my lane, 1 there sit roastin. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an Bos¬ 
ton; 

Till by an’ by, if I hand on. 

I’ll grunt a real Gospel-groan; 
Already I begin to try it. 

To cast my een up like a pyet. 

When by the gun she tumbles o’er, 
Flutt’ring an’ gaspin in her gore. 


1 In 1780 Mr. John Goldie, or Goudie, a tradesman in Kilmarnock, published a series 
of Essays touching the authority of the Scriptures. A second edition of the work am 
peared in 1785. Burns’s epistle to him, although written when Ayrshire was convulsed 
with the New Light and Auld Light controversies, was not published till 1801. It ap¬ 
peared first in a Glasgow edition of the poems. j urru c • V. 

* Dr. Taylor of Norwich, the author of a work entitled The Scripture Doctrine of 
Original Sin proposed to Free and Candid Examination,” w’hich was extensively read 
by the New Light party in Ayrshire at the time. , „ 

® Mr. James Tennant of Glenconner was an old friend of the Poet, and was consulted 
by him respecting the taking of the farm of Ellisland. 






208 


EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 


Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an’ a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld 
Glen, 

The ace an’ wale of honest men 
When bending down wi’ auld gray 
hairs. 

Beneath the load of years and cares. 
May He who made him still support 
him, 

An’ views beyond the grave comfort 
him 

His worthy fam’ly far and near, 

God bless them a’ wi grace and gear! 

My auld school-fellow. Preacher 
Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Billie, 

An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 

If he’s a parent, lass or boy. 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 
Just five-and-forty years thegither! 
An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I’m tauld he offers very fairly. 

An’ Lord,remember singing Sannock, 
Wi’hale-breeks, saxpence, an’ a ban¬ 
nock. 

An’ next, my auld acquaintance, 
Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy; 


An’ her .kind stars hae airted till 
her 

A good chiel wi’ a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen’ it. 
To cousin Kate an’ sister Janet; 

Tell them frae me, wi’ chiels be cau¬ 
tious. 

For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them 
fashions, 

To grant a heart is fairly civil. 

But to grant a maidenhead’s the 
devil.— 

An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel, 

May guardian angels tak a spell. 

An’ steer you seven miles south o’ 
hell. 

But first, before 3 'ou see heav’n’s 
glory. 

May ye get monie a merry story, 
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 
An’ aye enough o’ needfu’ clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ 
you’, 

For my sake this I beg it o’ you. 
Assist poor Simson a’ ye can. 

Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man; 
Sae I conclude and q uat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

Rob tke Ranter. 


EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS i TO MARIA. 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells. 

Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; 

Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 

And deal from iron hands the spare repast; 

Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin. 

Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; 

Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 

Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; 

Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing. 

Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 

To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate. 

“ Alas ! 1 feel I am no actor here! ” 

’Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear 1 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; 

1 “ The Esopus of this strange epistle,” says Mr. Allan Cunningham, “ was Williamson 
the actor, and the Maria to whom it was addressed was Mrs. Riddel.” While William¬ 
son and his brother actors were performing at Whitehaven, Lord Lonsdale committed 
the whole to prison. 




EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 


209 


Will make thy hair, tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold. 

Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care, 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; 

Or haughty Chieftain, ’mid the din of arms, 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina’s charms; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high. 
And steal from me Maria’s prying eye. 

Bless’d Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress, 
Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press. 

I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 

1 see her face the first of Ireland’s sons. 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 

The crafty colonel leaves the tartan’d lines. 

For other wars, where he a hero shines: 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 

Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head, 
Comes ’mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That xteni, vidi, mci, is his way; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; 
Though there, his heresies in church and state 
Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fate; 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call’d Maria’s jaunty stagger. 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ? 

Whose spleen e’en worse than Burns’s venom when 
He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen,— 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre divine; 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 

And even th’ abuse of poesy abused; 

Who call’d her verse a parish workhouse, made 
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray’d ?) 

A workhouse 1 ah, that sound awakes my woes. 
And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep. 

And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep; 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore. 
And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore. 


Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour ? 
Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure ? 

Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 

And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 

Thou know’st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse. 
The vices also, must they club their curse ? 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall. 

Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all 




210 


THE FAREWELL. 


Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; 

In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 

Who on my fair-one satire’s vengeance hurls ? 

Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 

Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn. 

And dare the war with all of woman born; 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that deciphering defy. 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 

ON A SUICIDE.i 

Earth’d up here lies an imp o’ hell. 

Planted by Satan’s dibble— 

Poor silly wretch, he’s damn’d himsel’ 

To save the Lord the trouble, 

A FAREWELL,-^ ' 

Farewell, dear Friend! may guid luck hit you, 
And, ’mang her favorites admit you! 

If e’er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane believe him! 

And ony De’il that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord deceive him. 


THE FAREWELL.3 


Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak do¬ 
mains. 

Far dearer than the torrid plains 
Where rich ananas blow! 

Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! 
A brother’s sigh! a sister’s tear! 

My Jean’s heart-rending throe 1 
Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt be¬ 
reft 

Of my parental care; 

A faithful brother I have left. 


My part in him thou’lt share I 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien’.* 
When kindly you mind me, 

O then befriend my Jean! 

When bursting anguish tears my 
heart. 

From thee, my Jeanie, must I part ? 

Thou weeping answ’rest “ no! ” 
Alas! misfortune stares my face. 


* A person named Glendining, who took away his own life, was the subject of this 
epigram. Mr. Cunningham adds the following particulars : “ My friend, Dr. Copland 
Hutchison, happened to be walking out that way to a place called the “ Old Cnapel 
near Dumfries,” where Glendining had been interred. “ He saw Burns with his foot on 
the grave, his hat on his knee, and paper laid on his hat, on which he was w riting. He 
then took the paper, thrust it with his finger into the red mold of the grave, and went 
away. This w'as the above epigram, and such w’as the Poet’s mode of publishing it.” 

* These lines from the conclusion of a letter w'ritten by Burns to Mr. John Kennedy, 
dated August, 1786, w'hile his intention yet held of emigrating to Jamaica. 

® “ The Farewell ” w’as written in the .autumn of 1766, when the idea of emigration 
was firmly fixed in the Poet’s mind. 





EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


2 II 


And points to ruin and disgrace, 
I for thy sake must go! 

Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 
A grateful, warm adieu I 
I, with a much-indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you I 


All-hail then, the gale then, 
Wafts me from thee, dear 
shore! 

It rustles, and whistles. 

I’ll never see thee more! 


EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRY: 

OK THB CLOSE OP THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN 
MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 


Fintry, my stay in worldly strife, 

Friend o’ my Muse, friend o’ my life. 

Are ye as idle’s lam? 

Come then, wi’ uncouth, kintra fleg. 

O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings; 

And, bent on winning borough towns. 

Came shaking hands wi’ wabster loons, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions; 

As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl’d; 

And Westerha’ and Hopeton hurl’d 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 

Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star; 

Besides, he hated bleeding; 

But left behind him heroes bright, ^ 

Heroes in Caesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

Ot for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, 

To muster o’er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner! , 

Heroes and heroines commix. 

All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honor. 

M’Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th’ enamor’d laurels kiss her brows!) 

Led on the loves and graces: 

18—Burns—J 






212 


EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


She won each gaping burgess’ heart, 

While he, all-conquering, play’d his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 


Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d corps. 

Tropes, metaphors and figures pour. 

Like Hecla streaming thunder: 
Glenriddel, skilVd in rusty coins. 

Blew up each Tory’s dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory; 

And Welsh, who ne’er yet fiinch’d his ground, 
High-waved his magnum-bonum round 
With Cyclopean fury. 


Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks, 

The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation! 

While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 

’Mid Lawson’s port entrench’d his hold. 

And threaten’d worse damnation.]' 

To these what Tory hosts oppos’d, 

With these what Tory warriors clos’d, 

Surpasses my descriving; 
Squadrons extended long and large. 

With furious speed rush to the charge. 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 

The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie! 

Grim Horror girn’d—pale Terror roar’d. 

As Murther at his thrapple shor’d. 

And Hell mix’d in the brulzie.y 


As Highland crags by thunder cleft. 

When lightnings fire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down with crashing rattle A 
As flames among a hundred woods; * 

As headlong foam a hundred floods; 

Such is the rage of battle I 


The stubborn Tories dare to die; 

As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th’ approaching fellers:" 
The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar, 

«. When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 




EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 


213 


Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring: 
The muffled murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham, 
Auld Covenanters shiver. 
CForgive, forgive, much wrong’d Montrose! 
Now death and hell engulf thy foes. 

Thou liv’st on high forever!) 

Still o’er the field the combat burns. 

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 

But Fate the word has spoken. 
For woman’s wit and strength 0 ’ man, 

Alas! can do but what they can! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 

O that my een were flowing burns! 

My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs’ undoing! 
That I might greet, that I might cry. 

While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James ? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor! 
Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave! 

And Stewart, bold as Hector! 

Thou, Pitt, Shalt rue this overthrow; 

And Thurlow growl a curse of woe 

And Melville melt in wailing! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice! 

And Burke shall sing, “ O Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all-prevailingT* 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely i 
So, when the storm the forest rends. 

The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 





214 


VERSES. 


STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 


How shall I sing Drumlanrig’s 
Grace, 

Discarded remnant of a race 
Once great in martial story ? 

His forbears’ virtues all contrast¬ 
ed— 

The very name of Douglas blasted— 
His that inverted glory. 


Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt: 
Follies and crimes have stain’d the 
name. 

But, Queensberry, thine the virgin 
claim, 

From aught that’s good exempt. 


VERSES I 

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 


As on the banks o’ wandering Nith, 
Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray’d, 
And traced its bonnie howes and 
haughs, 

Where Unties sang and lambkins 
play’d. 

I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o’ fancy’s dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below. 
Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 
And troubled, like his wintry wave. 
And deep, as suglis the boding wind 
Amanghis eaves, the sigh he gave— 
“And came ye here, my son,” he cried, 
“ To wander in my birken shade ? 
To ^muse some favorite Scottish 
theme, 

Or sing some favorite Scottish 
maid. 


“ There was a time, it’s nae lang 33 ^ 6 , 
Ye might hae seen me in my pride. 
When a’ my banks sae bravely saw 
Their woody pictures in my tide; 
When hanging beech and spreading 
elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and 
cool, 

And stately oaks their twisted arms 
Threw broad and dark across the 
pool; 

^ These verses were inscribed by Burns o 
toll-house near the scene of the devastatioi 


“ When glinting, through the trees, 
appear’d 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 

And peacefu’ rose its ingle reek. 

That slowly curled up the hill. 

But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter’s lost and gane. 

And scarce a stinted birk is left 
To shiver in the blast its lane.” 

“ Alas! ” said I, “ what ruefu’ chance 
Has twined ye o’ your stately trees? 

Has laid your rocky bosom bare ? 
Has stripp’d the deeding o’ your 
braes ? 

Was it the bitter eastern blast. 

That scatters blight in early 
spring ? 

Or was’t the wil’fire scorch’d their 
boughs. 

Or canker-worm wi’ secret sting ? ” 

“ Nae eastlin blast,” the sprite re¬ 
plied; 

“ It blew na here sae fierce and fell. 

And on my dry and halesome banks 
Nae canker-worms get leave to 
dwell: 

Man I cruel man!” the genius sigh’d— 
As through the cliffs he sank him 
down— 

“ The worm that gnaw’d my bonnie 
trees, 

That reptile wears a ducal crown.’* 

the back of a window-shutter of an Inn or 






EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 


215 


EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGANA 


Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Wil¬ 
lie ! 

Though fortune’s road be rough an’ 
hilly 

To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 
We never heed, 

But take it like the unback’d filly, 
Proud o’ her speed. 

When idly goaven whyles we saun¬ 
ter, 

Yirr, fancy barks, awa’ we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishan- 
ter. 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an’ banter 
We’re forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart! Hale be your 
fiddle! 

Lang may your elbuck jink and did¬ 
dle. 

To cheer you through the weary 
widdle 

O’ this wild warl’. 

Until you on a crummock driddle 
A gray-hair’d carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or 
soon. 

Heaven send your heart-strings ay in 
tune. 

And screw your temper-pins aboon 
A fifth or mair, 

The melancholious, lazie croon, 

O’ cankrie care. 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae “lente largo” in the play. 

But “allegretto forte” gay 
Harmonious flow 

A sweeping, kindling, bauld Strath¬ 
spey- 

Encore ! Bravo! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 

An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang 
By square an’ rule. 

But as the clegs o’ feeling stang 
Are wise or fool. 


My hand-waled curse keep hard in 
chase 

The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud 
race, 

Wha count on poortith as disgrace— 
Their tuneless hearts! 

May fire-side discords jar a base 
To a’ their parts! 

But come, your hand, my careless 
brither, 

I’ th’ ither warl’ if there’s anither. 

An’ that there is I’ve little swither 
About the matter; 

We cheek for chow shall jog the- 
gither, 

I’se ne’er bid better. 


We’ve faults and failings—granted 
clearly. 

We’re frail backsliding mortals 
merely. 

Eve’s bonnie squad priests wyte them 
sheerly 

For our grand fa’; 

But still, but still, I like them dear¬ 
ly— 

God bless them a’! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 

When they fa’ foul o’ earthly j inkers. 

The witching curs’d delicious blink¬ 
ers 

Hae put me byte. 

And gart me weet my waukrife 
winkers, 

Wi’ girnin spite. 

But by yon moon!—and that’s high 
swearin’— 

An’ every star within my bearin’! 

An’ by her een wha was a dear ane I 
I’ll ne’er forget; 

I hope to gie the jads a clearin’ 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it. 

I’ll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 


* Major Logan, a retired military officer, fond of wit, violin-playing, and conviviality, 
who lived at Park, near Ayr. 





2i6 


LINES. 


Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 
Some cantraip hour, 

By some sweet elf I’ll yet be dinted, 
Then mw Vamour I 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuses, 
To sentimental sister Susie, 

An’ honest Lucky; no to roose ye, 
Ye may be proud. 

That sic a couple Fate allows ye 
To grace your blood. 


Nae mair at present can I meas^ 
ure. 

An’ trowth my rhymin’ ware’s nae 
treasure; 

But when in Ayr, some half hour’s 
leisure, 

Be’t light, be’t dark. 

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Robert Burns. 

Mossgiel, 50th October^ 1786. 


EPITAPH ON THE POET’S DAUGHTER 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose. 

Blasted before its bloom; 

Whose innocence did sweets disclose 
Beyond that flower’s perfume. 

To those who for her loss are grieved. 

This consolation’s given— 

She’s from a world of woe relieved, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 


EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON.* 

■ Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct. 

And empty all his barrels; 

He’s blest—if, as he brew’d, he drink, 

In upright honest morals. 

ON STIRLING. 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign’d, 

And laws for Scotland’s weal ordain’d; 

But now unroof'd their palace stands. 

Their scepter’s sway’d by other hands; 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills their throne. 

An idiot race to honor lost, 

Who know them best, despise them most. 

LINES 

ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; 

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, 

Says the more ’tis a truth, sir, the more ’tis a libel ? 

* Gabriel Richardson was a brewer in Dumfries. The epitaph was written on a gobleti 
which is still preserved in the family. 




ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB. 


217 


REPLY TO THE MINISTER OF GLADSMUIR.i 

Like Esop’s lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
All others scorn—but damn that ass’s heel. 

EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER .2 


In this strange land, this uncouth 
clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme; 
Where words ne’er crost the Muse’s 
heckles. 

Nor limpit in poetic shackles; 

A land that prose did never view it. 
Except when drunk he stachert 
through it; 

Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek, 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk, 

I hear it—for in vain I leuk.— 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal: 

Here, for my wonted rhyming rap¬ 
tures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters; 
For life and spunk like ither Chris¬ 
tians, 

I’m dwindled down to mere existence 
Wi’nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies 
Wi’ nae kend face but Jenny Geddes. 
Jenny, my Pegasean pride! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 
And aye a westlin leuk she throw’s. 
While tears hap o'er her auld brown 
nosel 


Was it for this, wi’ canny care, 
Thou bure the Bard through many a 
shire ? 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 
And late or early never grumbled ?— 
O, had I power like inclination, 

I’d heeze thee up a constellation. 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good 
morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship’s face; 
For I could lay my bread and kail 
He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.— 
Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief. 

And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief, 
And naught but peat reek i’ my 
head. 

How can I write what ye can read ?— 
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June, 
Ye’ll find me in a better tune; 

But till we meet and weet our 
whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robekt Burns. 


ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 


TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 


Long life, my Lord,^ an' health be 
yours, 

Unskaith’d by hunger’d Highland 
boors; 

Lord grant nae duddio desperate 
beggar, 

Wi’ dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 


May twin auld Scotland 0 ’ a life 
She likes—as lambkins like a knife. 
Faith, you and Applecross were right 
To keep the Highland hounds in 
sight, 

I doubt na’! they wad bid nae better 
Than letthem ance outowre the water 


* Written in reply to the minister of Gladsmuir, who had attackedPiirns in verse rel¬ 
ative to the imprudent lines inscribed on a window-pane in Stirling. 

2 Written from Ellisland to his friend Mr. Hugh Parker of Kilmarnock. 

8 These verses were originally headed, “ To the Right Honorable, the Earl of Bread- 
albane. President of the Right Honorable and Honorable the Highland Society, which 
met on the !23d of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and 





2i8 


TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 


Then up amang thae lakes and seas 
They’ll mak’ what rules and laws 
they please; 

Some daring Hancock, ora Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a 
ranklin’; 

Some Washington again may head 
them. 

Or some Montgomery fearless lead 
them. 

Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts di¬ 
rected ; 

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire! 

Nae sage North, now, nor sager 
Sackville, 

To watch and premier o’er the pack 
vile, 

An’ whare will ye get Howes and 
Clintons 

To bring them to a right repentance. 
To cowe the rebel generation. 

An’ save the honor o’ the nation? 

They an’ be d-d! what right hae 

they 

To meat or sleep, or light o’ day! 

Far less to riches, pow’r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie 
them? 

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! 
Your hand’s owre light on them, I 
fear; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and 
bailies, 

I canna’ say but they do gaylies; 
They lay aside a’ tender mercies. 

An’ tirl the hallions to the birses; 


Yet while they’re only poind’t and 
herriet, 

They’ll keep their stubborn High¬ 
land spirit; 

But smash theml crash them a’ to 
spails! 

An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails I 
The young dogs, swinge them to the 
labor! 

Let wal k an’ hunger mak’ them so¬ 
ber! 

The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins 
fawsont. 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d I 
An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats 
E’en thigger at your doors an’ yetts 
Flaffan wi’ duds an’ grey wi’ beas’. 
Frightin’ awa your deucks an’ geese. 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 

The langest thong, the fiercest growl¬ 
er 

An gar the tatter’d gypsies pack 
Wi’ a’ their bastarts on their back! 
Go on, my lord I I lang to meet 
you. 

An’ in my house at hame to greet 
you; 

Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle. 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
At my right han’ assign’d your seat 
’Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate,— 
Or if you on your station tarrow 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 

A seat, I’m sure, ye’re weel deser- 
viu’t; 

An’ till ye come—your humble ser¬ 
vant. 

Beelzebub. 

June 1, Anno Mundi, 5790, 


TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.i 


Now Kennedy, if foot or horse 
E’er bring you in by Mauchline Corss, 
Lord, man, there’s lasses there wad 
force 


A hermit’s fancy, 

And down the gate in faith they’re 
worse 

And mair unchancy. 


means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were 
informed by Mr. Mackenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape 
from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from 
the lands of Mr. M’Donald of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada in search of that fantas¬ 
tic thing— Liberty.” 

* These verses from the conclusion of a letter written to Mr. John Kennedy from 
Mossgiel, of date 3d March, 1786. 







ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ. 


219 


But as I’m sayin’ please step to Dow’s 
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews, 
Till some bit callan brings me news 
That you are there, 

And if we dinna baud a bouze 
I’se ne’er drink mair. 

It’s no I like to sit an’ swallow. 

Then like a swine to puke and wal¬ 
low 

But gie me just a true good fallow 
Wi’ right ingine. 

And spunkie ance to make us mel¬ 
low, 

And then we’ll shine. 


Now if ye’re ane o’ warl’s folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
An’ sklent on poverty their joke, 
Wi’ bitter sneer, 

Wi’ you no friendship I will troke 
Nor cheap nor dear. 


But if, as I’m informed weel. 

Ye hate as ill’s the vera deil. 

The flinty hearts that canna feel— 
Come, Sir, here’s tae you; 
Hae there’s my haun’, I wiss you 
weel. 

And gude be wi’ you. 


ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.* 

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains. 

The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 

The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 


Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 

Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 

Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 

Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; 

Where to the whistling blast and water’s roar. 

Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! 

A loss these evil days can ne’er repair! 

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 

Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway’d her rod; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow. 

She sunk, abandon’d to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a'darksome den, 

Now gay in hope explore the paths of men; 

See from his cavern grim Oppression rise. 

And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; 

Keen on the helpless victim see him fly. 

And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry; 

> Lord President Dundas died on the 13th December, 1787, and Burns composed the 
elegy at the suggestion of Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, afterwards elevated to the 
bench under the designation of Lord Newton. On a copy of the elegy Burns afterwards 
wrote : “ The foregoing poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound 
of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even to peruse it. I sent a copy of it, with 
my best prose letter, to the son of the great man, by the hands of one of the noblest 
men in GTod’s world, Alexander Wood, surgeon. When, behold I his solicitorship took 
no more notice of my poem or me than if I had been a strolling fiddler, who had made 
free with his lady’s name over a silly new reel. Did the gentleman imagine that I looked 
for any dirty gratuity ? ” 




220 


LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE. 


Mark ruffian Violence, distain’d with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way; 
While subtile Litigation’s pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong*. 
Hark, injured Want recounts th’ unlisten’d tale, ^ 
And much-wrong’d Mis’ry pours th’ unpitied wail! 


Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains; 

Ye tempests rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! 

Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 

Life’s social haunts and pleasures I resign, ^ 

Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure. 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 


TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 


O, COULD I give thee India’s wealth. 
As I this trifle send! 

Because thy joy in both would 
be 

To share them with a friend. 


ON THE DEATH 

NAMED 

In wood and wild, ye warbling 
throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore; 

Now half-extinct your powers of 
song. 


But golden sands did never grace 
The Heliconian stream; 

Then take what gold could never 
buy. 

An honest Bard’s esteem. 


OF A LAP-DOG,i 

ECHO. 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring, screeching things around 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 


LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE.^ 


The night was still, and o’er the hill 
The moon shone on the castle wa’; 
The mavis sang, while dew-drops 
hang 

Around her, on the castle wa’. 


Sae merrily they danced the ring, 
Frae e’enin’ till the cock did 
craw; 

And aye the o’erword o’ the spring. 
Was Irvine’s bairns are bonnie a’. 


1 Written at Castle Kenmure at the request of Mr. Gordon, whose dog had recently 
died. 

* These lines were preserved by Miss Louisa Laurie, and appear to have been written 
on the same evening with the well-known “ Verses left in the room where he slept.” 








ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 


221 


ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 

A SECOND VERSION OF THE KIRK’S ALARM. 


Orthodox, orthodox, 

Who believe in John Knox, 

Let me sound an alarm to your con¬ 
science— 

There’s an heretic blast. 

Has been blawn i’ the wast 
That what is not sense must be non¬ 
sense. 

Orthodox, 

That what is not sense must be non¬ 
sense. 

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac, 

Ye should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doers wi’ terror; 

To join faith and sense. 

Upon any pretence, 

Was heretic damnable error. 

Doctor Mac, 

Was heretic damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 

It was rash, I declare. 

To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing; 
Provost John is still deaf 
To the Church’s relief, 

And orator Bob is its ruin, 

Town of Ayr, 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D’rymple mild, D’rymple mild 
Tho’ your heart’s like a child, 
And your life like the , new-driven 
snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, 

Old Satan must have ye 
For preaching that three’s ane an’ 
twa, 

D’rymple mild, 

For preaching that three’s ane an’ 
twa. 

Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons. 
Seize your spiritual guns. 
Ammunition you never can need; 
Your hearts are the stuff. 

Will be powder enough, 


And your skulls are a storehouse of 
lead, 

Calvin’s sons. 

And your skulls are a storehouse of 
lead 

Rumble John, Rumble John, 
Mount the steps with a groan, 
Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d; 
Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like aidle, 

And roar every note o’ the damn’d, 
Rumble John, 

And roar every note o’ the damn’d. 

Simper James, Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 
There’s a holier chase in your view ; 
I’ll lay on your head. 

That the pack ye’ll soon lead, 
For puppies like you there’s but few. 
Simper James, 

For puppies like you there’s but 
few. 

Singet Sawnie, singet Sawnie, 
Are ye herding the penny. 
Unconscious what danger awaits? 
With a jump, yell, and howl. 
Alarm every soul. 

For Hannibal’s just at your gates, 
Singet Sawnie, 

For Hannibal’s just at your gates. 

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk 
Ye may slander the book. 

And the book nought the waur—let 
me tell you; 

Tho’ ye’re rich and look big, 
Yet lay by hat and wig, 

And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ 
value, 

Andrew Gowk, 

And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ 
value. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 
l Gie the doctor a volley. 




222 


ORTHODOX, ORTHODOX. 


Wi’ your “ liberty’s chain ” and your 
wit- 

O’er Pegasus’ side, 

Ye ne’er laid a stride, 

Ye only stood by when he sh—, 

Poet Willie, 

Ye only stood by when he sh—. 

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie, 

What mean ye ? what mean ye? 
If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the mat¬ 
ter. 

Ye may hae some pretence, man, 
To havins and sense, man, 

Wi’ people that ken you nae better, 
Bar Steenie, 

Wi’people that ken you nae better. 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 

Ye hae made but toom roose, 

O’ hunting the wicked Lieutenant; 
But the doctor’s your mark. 

For the Lord’s holy ark. 

He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrang 
pin in’t, 

Jamie Goose, 

He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrang 
pin in’t. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 
For a saunt if ye muster, 

It’s a sign they’re no nice o’ recruits, 
Yet to worth let’s be just. 

Royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass were the King o’ the 
brutes. 

Davie Bluster, 

If the ass were the King o’ the 
brutes. 

Muirland George, Muirland 
George, 

Whom the Lord make a scourge. 
To claw common sense for her sins; 
If ill manners were wit. 

There’s no mortal so fit 


To confound the poor doctor at ance, 
Muirland George, 

To confound the poor doctor at anco 

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 

Wi’ your turkey-cock pride, 

O’ manhood but sma’ is your share I 
Ye’ve the figure, it’s true. 

Even our foes maun allow. 

And your friends daurna say ye hae 
mair 

, Cessnockside, 

And your friends daurna say ye hae 
mair 

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 
There’s a tod i’ the fauld, 

A tod meikle w’aur than the clerk; 
Tho’ ye downa do skaith. 

Ye’ll be in at the death, 

And if ye canna bite, ye can bark. 

Daddie Auld 

And if ye canna bite, ye can bark, 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi’ your priest-skelping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native 
shire ? 

Tho’ your Muse is a gipsy. 

Yet were she even tipsy. 

She could ca’ us nae waur than we 
are. 

Poet Burns, 

She could ca’ us nae waur than we 
are. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Afton’s Laird, Afton’s Laird, 
When your pen can be spared, 

A copy o’ this I bequeath. 

On the same sicker score 
I mentioned before. 

To that trusty auld worthy Clack- 
leith, 

Afton’s Laird, 

To that trusty auld worthy Clack- 
leith. 







ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 


223 


THE SELKIRK Gl^ACE.i 

Some hae meat, and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it; 
But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 


ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON.2 


Peg Nicholson was a gude bay 
mare, 

As ever trode on aim; 

But now she’s floating down the Nith, 
An’ past the mouth o’ Cairn, 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 
An’ rode thro’ thick an’ thin; 

But now she’s floating down the Nith, 
An’ wanting even the skin. 


Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 
An’ ance she bare a priest; 

But now she’s floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An’ the priest he rode her sair; 
An’ meikle oppress’d an’ bruised she 
was. 

As priest-rid cattle are. 


ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 


IN A FAVORITE CHARACTER. 


Sweet naivete of feature. 

Simple, wild, enchanting elf. 
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 


Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art; 
Loves and graces all rejected, 

Then indeed thou’dst act a part. 


THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT.® 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood—cost Scotland tears ; 
But it sealed Freedom’s sacred cause— 

If thou’rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 


ON .MISS JESSY LEWARS.^ 


Talk not to me of savages 
From Afric’s burning sun. 

No savage e’er could rend my heart. 
As, Jessy, thou hast done. 


But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 

Not ev’n to view the heavenly choir, 
Would be so blest a sight. 


’ “ The Grace ” was repeated at St. Mary’s Isle at the request of the Earl of Selkirk. 

* The mare, which was named after the insane female who attempted the life of 
George HI., was the property of Bums’s friend, Mr. William Nicol. 

* These lines were written on a page of the Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. xiii., 
containing a description of the parish of Balmaghie. The minister, after quoting one 
of the simple, rude martyrs’ epitaphs, adds—“ The author of which no doubt supposed 
himself to have been writing poetry.” This captious remark called forth Burns’s lines. 
The book, with the poet’s comment, is preserved in the Mechanics’ Institute, Dumfries. 
It is curious as the only expression of sympathy with the Covenanting cause which 
occurs in Burns. 

* While Miss Lewars was attending Burns she became slightly indisposed. ” You must 






224 


INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 


EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Say, Sages, what’s the charm on earth 
Can turn Death’s dart aside ? 

It is not purity and worth. 

Else Jessy had not died. 

THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.‘ 

But rarely seen since Nature’s birth. 

The natives of the sky. 

Yet still one Seraph’s left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 

THE TOAST.2 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 

Call a toast, a toast divine; 

Give the Poet’s darling flame. 

Lovely Jessy be the name ; 

Then thou mayest freely boast. 

Thou has given a peerless toast, 

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 

A caulder kirk, and in’t but few; 

As cauld a minister’s e’er spak, 

Ye’se a’ be het ere I eome back. 


WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE’S "WORKS "WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN. 


Thou flattering mark of friendship 
kind, 

Still may thy pages call to mind 
The dear, the beauteous donor; 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the 
heart. 

Does both the sexes honor. 


She show’d her tastes refin’d and just, 
When she selected thee. 

Yet deviating, own I must. 

For so approving me. 

But kind still. I’ll mind still 
The giver in the gift; 

I’ll bless her and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift, 


INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

"WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME. 

There’s death in the cup—sae beware! 

Nay, more—there is danger in touching; 

But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and his wine’s sae bewitching 1 

not die yet," said the poet, and writing the four lines on a goblet he presented it, say* 
ing, “ This will be a companion for the ^ Toast.’ ’’ 

’ On Miss Lewars recovering he said, “ There is a poetic reason for it," and wrote 
these lines. 

• " The Toast ” was written by Burns on a goblet, and presented to Miss Lewars. 





WILLIE CHALMERS. 


225 


THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots, make your windings; 

But, oh! respect his lordship’s taste, 

And spare his golden bindings. 


ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 


To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear; 

Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 
This ivied cot revere. 


WILLIE CHALMERS. 1 


Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, 
And eke a braw new brechan. 

My Pegasus I’m got astride. 

And up Parnassus pechin; 

Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward 
crush. 

The doited beastie stammers; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets 
For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that Tveel kenn’d 
name 

May cost a pair o’ blushes; 

I am nae stranger to your fame 
Nor his warm urged wishes. 

Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet. 
His honest heart enamours. 

And faith ye’ll no be lost a’ whit, 
Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld Truth hersel’ might swear ye’re 
fair. 

And Honor safely back her. 

And Modesty assume your air. 

And ne’er a ane mistak’ her: 

And sic twa love-inspiring een 
Might fire even holy Palmers; 

Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been 
To honest Willie Chalmers. 


I doubt na fortune may you shore 
Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priest- 
ie, 

Fu’ lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie: 

But oh! what signifies to you. 

His lexicons and grammars; 

The feeling heart’s the royal blue. 
And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin’ glowrin’ countra laird. 
May warsle for your favor; 

May claw his lug, and straik his 
beard,. 

And hoast up some palaver. 

My bonnie maid, before ye wed 
Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit 
skelp 

Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard 
For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie’m his dues. 
For de’il a hair I roose him. 

May powers aboon unite you soon. 
And fructify your amours,— 

And every year come in mair dear 
To you and Willie Chalmers. 


* Mr. Chalmers was a writer in Ayr, and in love. He desired Burns to address the 
lady in his beh^. 





226 


BURNS—EXTEMPORE. 


TO JOHN TAYLOR.1 


With Pegasus upou a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 

Through frosty hills the journey lay. 
On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 
Was but a sorry walker; 

To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 


Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 
And did Sol’s business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead, 
Pity my sad disaster; 

My Pegasus is poorly shod— 

I’ll pay you like my master. 


LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.^ 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf 1 
Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief! 

For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass! 

For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass! 

I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, thro’ thy curs’d restriction. 

I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile, 

Amid his hapless victim’s spoil. 

For lack o’ thee I leave this much-lov’d shore, 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B. Kyle. 


THE LOYAL NATIVES’ VERSES. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng. 

With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 

Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 

These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting^ and he ejj* 
dorsed the subjoined reply: 


BURNS—EXTEMPORE. 

Ye true “ Loyal Natives,” attend to my song. 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt ? 


* Burns arrived at Wanlockhead on a winter day, and was anxious to have the shoes 
of his mare frosted. The smith was busy, and could not attend. Burns then scrib¬ 
bled these verses to Mr. John Taylor, a person of some importance in the place. 
Through Taylor’s influence the smith’s services were secured; and for thirty years 
afterwards it is said Vulcan was in the habit of boasting “that he had never been 
weel paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, 
and paid him in verse.’’ 

2 The note on which Burns wrote these lines is of the Bank of Scotland, dated 1st, 
March, 1780. 





227 


“ IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.” 


REMORSE. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 
Beyond comparison the w^orst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say—“ It was no deed of mine; ” 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added—“ Blame thy foolish self! ” 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we’ve involved others; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us. 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin! 

O burning hell 1 in all thy store of torments, 

There’s not a keener lash! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment. 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 

O, happy 1 happy! enviable man 1 
O glorious magnanimity of soul! 

THE TOAD-EATER.1 

What of earls with whom you have supt, 

And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

Lord I a louse. Sir, is still but a louse. 

Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen. 


TO 


Sm, 

Yours this moment I unseal. 

And faith I am gay and hearty 1 
To tell the truth an’ shame the Deil 
I am as f u’ as Bar tie. 


Mossgiel, -1786 

But foorsday. Sir, my promise leal 
Expect me o’ your party, 

If on a beastie I can speel. 

Or hurl in a cartie. R. B. 


“IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.” 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens’ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 

I know its worst—and can that worst despise. 


*ThIs epigram, it is said, silenced a gentleman who was talking mightily of dukes at 
the table of Maxwell of Terraughty. 






228 


TAM THE CHAPMAN. 


Wrong’d, injur’d, shunn’d, unpitied, unredrest, 

The mock’d quotation of the scorner’s jest.” 

Let Prudence’ direst bodements on me fall, 

Clarinda, rich reward! o’erpays them all! 

“THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE.”^ 

Though fickle Fortune has deceiv’d me, 

She promis’d fair and perform’d but ill; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me, 

Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.— 

I’ll act with prudence as far’s I’m able. 

But if success I must never find, 

Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.— 

“I BURN, I BURN.” 

‘ I BURN, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d corn 
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne,” 

Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night; 

Now bless the hour which charm’d my guilty sight. 

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose: 

Chain’d at his feet they groan, Love’s vanquish’d foes; > 

In vain religion meets my sinking eye; 

I dare not combat—but I turn and fly; 

Conscience in vain upbraids th’ unhallow’d fire; 

Love grasps his scorpions—stifled they expire! 

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 

Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone: 

Each thought intoxicated homage yields. 

And riots wanton in forbidden fields! 

By all on high adoring mortals know! 

By all the conscious villain fears below! 

By your dear self!—the last great oath I swear; 

Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear I 

EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 

# 

Light lay the earth on Billy’s breast, 

His chicken heart so tender; 

But build a castle on his head. 

His skull will prop it under. 

TAM THE CHAPMAN.« 

As Tam the Chapman on a day 
Wi’ Death forgather’d by the way, 

Weel pleas’d, he greets a wight sae famous, ' 

And Death was nae less pleased wi’ Thomas, 

* These lines occur in one of the letters to Clarinda. 

2 Mr. Cobbett who first printed these lines, says: “ It is our fortune to know a Mr 
Kennedy, an aged gentleman, a native of Scotland, and the early friend and associate 



PROLOGUE. 


229 


Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 

And there blaws up a hearty crack; 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part: 

Sae after viewing knives and garters. 

Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.) 

TO DK. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JKSSY STAIG’S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny; 

You save fair Jessy from the gravel 
An Angel could not die 


FRAGMENT. 


Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mail’ my dearie smiles; 

Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 
And a’ my hopes beguiles. 


The cruel powers reject the prayer 
I hourly mak’ for thee; 

Ye heavens, how great is my despair. 
How can I see him die! 


THERE’S NAETHING LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY 


There’s naething like the honest 
nappy! 

Whaur’ll ye e’er see men sae happy, 
Or women sonsie, saft, an’ sappy, 

’Tween morn an’ morn, 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 
In glass or horn. 


I’ve seen me daez’t upon a time; 

I scarce could wink or see a styme; 
Just ae hauf mutchkin does me 
prime, 

Ought less is little, 

Then back 1 rattle on the rhyme 
As gleg’s a whittle! 


PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, MONDAY, APRU. 16, 1787. 

When by a generous public’s kind acclaim. 

That dearest meed is granted—honest fame; 

When here your favor is the actor’s lot. 

Nor even the man in private life forgot; 

W'hat breast so dead to heav’nly virtue’s glow. 

But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe ? 

Poor is the task to please a barb’rous throng. 

It needs no Siddons’ power in Southern’s song; 

of Robert Burns. Both were born in Ayrshire, near the town of Ayr, so frequently 
celebrated in the poems of the bard. Burns, as is well known, was a poor peasant’s 
son; and in the “ Cotter’s Saturday Night,” gives a noble picture of what we may pre¬ 
sume to be the family circle of his father. Kennedy, whose boyhood was passed in 
the labors of a farm, subsequently became the agent to a mercantile house in a neigh¬ 
boring town. Hence he is called, in an epitaph which his friend the Poet wrote on- 
him, ‘ The Chapman.’ These lines, omitted in all editions of Burns’s works, were com- 

g osed on Kennedy’s recovery from a severe illness. On his way to kirk on a bright 
abbath morning, he was met by the Poet, who, having rallied him on the sombre ex¬ 
pression of his countenance, fell back, and soon rejoined him, presenting him with the 
epitaph scrawled on a bit of paper, with a pencil.' 





230 


nature’s law. 


But here an ancient nation, fam’d afar 
For genius, learning high, as great in war— 

Hail, Caledonia! name forever dear! 

Before whose sons I’m honor’d to appear! 

Where every science, every nobler art— 

That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 

Is known; as grateful nations oft have found. 

Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 

Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream, 

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; 
Here History paints with elegance and force. 

The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course; 

Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan. 

And Harley rouses all the god in man. 

When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite, 

With manly love, or female beauty bright, 

(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace 
Can only charm us in the second place,) 

Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 

As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! 

But still the hope Experience taught to live. 

Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. 

No hundred-h^eaded Riot here we meet. 

With decency and law beneath his feet, 

Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name; 

Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honor’d land 1 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire • 

May every son be worthy f his sire; 

Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain; 

Still self-dependent in her native shore. 

Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, 

Till Fate the curtain dro, on worlds to be no more. 

NATURE’S LAW.i 


A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO Q. H,, ESQ. 

Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed. 

Pope. 


Let Other heroes boast their scars, 
The marks of sturt and strife: 

And other Poets sing of wars. 

The plagues of human life; 

Shame fa’ the fun; wi’ sword and 
gun 

To slap mankind like lumber! 

1 sing his name and nobler fame, 
Wha multiplies our number. 


Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 
‘ ‘ Go on, ye human race I 
This lower world I you resign; 

Be fruitful and increase. 

The liquid fire of strong desire 
I’ve pour’d it in each bosom; 

Here, in this hand, does mankind 
stand. 

And there, is Beauty’s Blossom I ” 


* These verses, inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, were printed for the first time In Picker 
ing's edition. 




TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 


231 


The Hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly Bard was he, 

Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s 
plains 

With meikle mirth an’ glee; 

Kind Nature’s care had given his 
share. 

Large, of the flaming current; 

And, all devout, he never sought 
To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest. 
Thrill, vital, thro’ and thro’; 

And sought a correspondent breast. 
To give obedience due; 
PropitiousPowers screen’d the young 
flow’rs, 

From mildews of abortion ; 

And lo! the Bard, a great reward. 
Has got a double portion I 

THE CATS LJ 

The cats like kitchen; 

The dogs like broo; 

The lasses like the lads weel. 
And th’ auld wives too. 


Auld, cantie Coil may count the 
day. 

As annual it returns. 

The third of Libra’s equal sway, 
That gave another Burns, 

With future rhymes, an’ other times, 
To emulate his sire; 

To sing auld Coil in nobler style 
With more poetic fire. 

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful 
song, 

Look down with gracious eyes; 
And bless auld Coila, large and 
long, 

With multiplying joys. 

Long may she stand to prop the land 
The flow’r of ancient nations, 

And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, 
To endless generations! 

[E KITCHEN. 

CHORUS. 

And we’re a’ noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 

We’re a’ noddin fou at e’en. 


TRAGIC FRAGMENT.! 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden’d, stubborn, unrepenting villain. 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; 

And with sincere tho’ unavailing sighs 
I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears of indignation I behold th’ oppressor > 

Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction. 

Whose unsubmittiug heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 

Ye poor, despis’d, abandon’d vagabonds. 

Whom vice, as usual, has turn’d o’er to Ruin. 

O but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you! 

O injur’d God! Thy goodness has endow’d me 
With talents passing most of my compeers. 

Which I in just proportion have abus’d. 

As far surpassing other common villains, 

As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more. 

* Burns in early life sketched the outlines of a tragedy, and the “ Tragic Fragment” 
was “ an exclamation from a great character—great in occasional instances of gener¬ 
osity, and daring at times, in villainies. He is supposed to meet a child of misery and 
exclaims to himself.” 






232 


FRAGMENTS. 


EXTEMPORE. 

ON PASSING A LADY’S CARRIAGE, [MRS. MARIA RIDDEL’S.] 

Ip you rattle along like your mistress’s tongue, 

Your speed will out-rival the dart 
But, a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road, 
If yoiir stuff be as rotten’s her heart, 

FRAGMENTS. 


Ye hae lien a’ wrang, lassie. 

Ye’ve lien a' wrang, 

Ye’ve lien in an unco bed, 

An d wi’ a fremit man. 

O ance ye danced upon the knowes. 
And ance ye lightly sang— 

But in berrying o’ a bee byke, 

I’m rad ye’ve got a stang. 


O GiE my love brose, brose, 

Gie my love brose and butter; 
For nane in Garrick or Kyle 
Can please a lassie better. 

The lav’rock lo’es the grass. 

The muirhen lo’es the heather; 
But gie me a braw moonlight, 
And me and my love together. 


Lass, when your mither is frae hame, 
Might I but be sae bauld 
As come to your bower-window, 
And creep in frae the cauld. 

As come to your bower-window 
And when it’s cauld and wat, 
Warm me in thy sweet bosom; 

Fair lass, wilt thou do that? 

Young man, gif ye should be sae kind. 

When our gudewife’s frae hame, 
As come to my bower-window, 
Whare I am laid my lane, 

And warm thee in my bosom— 

But I will tell thee what. 

The way to me lies through the kirk. 
Young man, do you hear that ? 


I MET a lass, a bonnie lass. 

Coming o’er the braes o’ Couper, 


Bare her leg and bright her een, 

And handsome ilka bit about her. 
Weel I wat she was a quean 
Wad made a body’s mouth to 
water; 

Our Mess John, wi’ his lyart pow. 
His haly lips wad lickit at her. 


O WAT ye what my minnie did, 
My minnie did, my minnie did, 
O wat ye wat my minnie did. 

On Tysday ’teen to me, jo ? 

She laid me in a salt bed, 

A saft bed, a saft bed. 

She laid me in a saft bed, 

And bade gudeen to me, io. 

An’ wat ye what the parson did. 
The parson did, the parson did, 
An’ wat ye what the parson did, 
A' for a penny fee, jo ? 

He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man. 
He loosed on me a lang man. 

That might hae worried me, jo. 

An’ I was but a young thing, 

A young thing, a young thing, 
An’ I was but a young thing, 

Wi’ nane to pity me, jo. 

I wat the kirk was in the wyte, 

In the wyte, in the wyte. 

To pit a young thing in a fright. 
An’ loose a man on me, jo. 


O CAN ye labor lea, young man. 
An’ can ye labour lea; 

Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 
Ye’se never scorn me. 











EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 


233 


I feed a man at Martinmas, 
Wi’ arle pennies three; 

An’ a’ the faut I fan’ wi’ him, 
He couldna labor lea. 


The stibble rig is easy plough’d, 

The fallow land is free; 

But wha wad keep the handless coof, 
That couldna labor lea ? 


Jenny M‘Craw, she has ta’en to the heather. 

Say, was it the covenant carried her thither; 
Jenny M'Craw to the mountain is gane. 

Their leagues and their covenants a’ she has ta’en; 
My head and my heart, now quo’ she, are at rest, 
And as for the lave, let the Deil do his best. 


The last braw bridal that I was at, 
'Twas on a Hallowmass day. 

And there was routh o’ drink and fun. 
And mickle mirth and play. 

The bells they rang, and the carlins 
sang. 

And the dames danced in the ha’; 
The bride went to bed wi’ the silly 
bridegroom. 

In the midst o’ her kimmers a’. 


O Thou, in whom we live and move. 
Who mad’st the sea and shore; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 
And grateful would adore. 

And if it please thee, Pow’r above. 
Still grant us with such store; 

The friend we trust, the fair we love. 
And we desire no more. 


Lord, we thank an’ thee adore. 

For temp’ral gifts we little merit; 
At present we will ask no more. 

Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 


There came a piper out o’ Fife, 

I watna what they ca'd him; 

He play’d our cousin Kate a spring. 
When fient a body bade him. 

And ay the mair he botch’d an blew. 
The mair that she forbade him. 


The black-headed eagle, 

As keen as a beagle. 

He hunted o’er height andowre howe, 
But fell in a trap 
On the braes o’ Gemappe, 

E’en let him come out as he dowe. 


EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol’s brain. 
For few sic feasts ye’ve gotten; 
And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart, 
For de’il a bit o’t’s rotten. 


ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE. 


SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR. 


What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch. 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man! hae mercy wi’ your 
natch. 

Your bodkin’s bauld, 

I didna suffer ha’f sae much 
Prae Daddie Auld. 


What tho’at timeswhen I growcrouse, 
I gi’e their wames a random pouse. 
Is that enough for you to souse 
Your servant sae ? 

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the- 
louse 

An’ jag-the-fiae. 












234 


EXTEMPORE LINES. 


King David o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mang the lasses such mis¬ 
chief 

As fill’d his after life wi’ grief 
An’ bloody rants, 

An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief 
O’ lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken 
rants, 

I’ll gie auld cloven Clooty’s haunts 
An unco slip yet. 

An’ snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie’s hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa’ upo’ anither plan. 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 
Clean heels owre body. 

And sairly thole their mither’s ban 
Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to tell for sport. 
How I did wi’ the Session sort— 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry’d three times, “Robin! 
Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t, 
Ye’re blam’d for jobbin’.” 

Wi’ pinch I put a Sunday’s face on, 
An’ snoov’d awa’ before the Session— 
I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn’d to lie; 

An’ syne Mess John, beyond expres¬ 
sion. 

Fell foul o’ me. 


A furnicator-loun he call’d me. 

An’ said my fau’t frae bliss ex pell’d 
me; 

I own’d the tale was true he tell’d me, 
“But what the matter?” 
Quo’ I, “ I fear unless ye geld me, 
I’ll ne’er be better.” 

“Geld you!” quo’ he, “and what- 
for no ? 

If that your right hand, leg or toe. 
Should ever prove your sp’ritual foe, 
You should remember 
To cut it afif, an’ whatfor no 

Y'our dearest member ? ” 

“Na, na,” quo’ I, “ I’m no for that. 
Gelding’s nae better than ’tis ca’t. 

I’d rather suffer for my faut, 

A hearty flewit, 

As sair owre hip as ye can draw’t, 
Tho’ I should rue it. 

“ Or gin ye like to end the bother. 
To please us a’, I’ve just ae ither, 
When next wi’ yon lass I forgather, 
Whate’er betide it. 

I’ll frankly gi’e her’t a’ thegither, 
An’ let her guide it.” 

But, Sir, this pleas’d them warst ava. 
An’ therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said, “ Gude night,” and cam awa. 
And left the Session; 

I saw they were resolved a’ 

On my oppression. 


EXTEMPORE LINES, 

IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING miyt 
TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. 

The King’s most humble servant I. 

Can scarcely spare a minute; 

But I’ll be wi’ ye by an’ bye; 

Or else the Deil’s be in it. 


My bottle is my holy pool, 

That heals the wounds o’ care an’ dool. 
And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An’ ye drink it, ye’ll find him out. 





THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 


235 


LINES. 

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADV’S POCKET-BOOK. [MISS KENNEDVt 
SISTER-IN-LAW OF GAVIN HAMILTON.] 

Grant me, indulgent Heav’n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pain they give; 

Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air, 

Till slave and despot be but things which were. 


THE HENPECK’D HUSBAND. 

CtTRs’D be the man, the poorest wretch in life. 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife! 

Who has no will but by her high permission; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend’s secret tell; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 

I’d break her spirit, or I’d break her heart; 

I’d charm her with the magic of a switch, 

I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. 


EPITAPH ON A HENPECK’D COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool’d, 

A case that’s stiP too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul’d. 

The Devil rul’d the woman. 


EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. 


O Death, hadst thou but spar’d his 
life 

Whom we, this day, lament! 

We freely wad exchang’d the wife. 
And a’ been weel content. 


Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff, 

The swap we yet will do’t; 

Take thou the carlin’s carcase 
aff, - 

Thou’se get the saul o’ boot. 


ANOTHER. 


One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 

When depriv’d of her husband she loved so well. 

In respect for the love and affection he’d show’d her, 

She reduc’d him to dust and she drank up the powder. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a diff’rent complexion, 

When call’d on to order the fun’ral direction. 

Would have eat her dead lord on a slender pretence, 

Not to show her respect, but—to save the expense. 

18—Burns—K 






236 


A TOAST. 


VERSES. 


WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 


We came na here to view your 
warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 

But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise. 


But when we tirl’d at your door, 
Your porter dought na hear us; 
Sae may, shou’d we to hell’s yetts 
come 

Your billy Satan sair us! 


LINES. 

ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTLE 
AND MRS. * * SO LARGE. 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn of Moffat. 

Ask why God made the gem so small. 

An’ why so huge the granite ? 

Because God meant mankind should set 
That higher value on it. 


EPIGRAM. 

WRITTEN AT INVERARY. 


Whoe’er he be that sojourns here, 
I pity much his case. 

Unless he come to wait upon 
The Lord their God, his Grace. 


There’s naething here but Highland 
pride. 

And Highland scab and hunger; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
’Twas surely in his anger. 


A TOAST. 

GIVEN AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATE 
THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEY’S VICTORY, APRIL 12tH, 1782. 

Instead of a Song, boys. I’ll give you a Toast,— 

Here’s the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost: 

That we lost, did I say ? nay, by heav’n, that we found, 

For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 

The next in succession. I’ll give you the King, 

Whoe’er would betray him, on high may he swing! 

And here’s the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 

As built on the base of the great Revolution; 

And longer with Politics, not to be cramm’d, 

Be Anarchy curs’d, and Tyranny damn’d; 

And who would to Liberty e’er prove disloyal. 

May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial I 

* On Burns’ arrival at Inverary the castle and inn w-ere filled with visitors to the Duke, 
and the innkeeper was too busy to pay attention to the Poet and his friend. The epi¬ 
gram, which was first published in the Glasgow edition, is supposed to have been writ¬ 
ten on one of the windows. 






TO J. RANKINE. 


237 


LINES. 

SAID TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANEJNEy 
AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET’S DECEASE. 

He who of Ranliine sang, lies stiff and dead; 

And a green grassy hillock hides his head; 

Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed! 


VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE, 


ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET, THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART OF THE CODNTEY 

WAS WITH CHILD TO HIM. 


I AM a keeper of the law 
In some sma’ points, altho’ not a’; 
Some people tell me gin 1 fa’, 

Ae way or ither, 

The breaking of ae point, tho ’sma’. 
Breaks a’ thegither. 


I hae been in for’t ance or twice, 
And winna say owre far for thrice. 
Yet never met with that surprise 
That broke my rest. 

But now a rumor’s like to rise, 

A whaup’s i’ the nest. 


ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY. 


What dost thou in that mansion fair ? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 
The picture of thy mind! 


ON THE SAME. 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 

The Stewarts all were brave; 
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 

ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, 
Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire! 

So ran the far-fam’d Roman way, 

So ended in a mire! 


TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live; 

I ask no kindness at thy hand. 

For thou hast none to give. 

’ John Stewart, eighth Earl of Galloway, who died in 1796. Burns disliked this noble 
man, and his dislike descended in a shower of brilliant epigrams. 





238 


ON A SCHOOLMASTER. 


VERSES TO J. RANKINE. 


Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl* 

A mixtie,roaxtie motley squad, 

And monie a guilt-bespotted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and sta¬ 
tion. 

From him that wears the star and 
garter, 

To him that wintles in a halter ; 
AshamM himself to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 


“By God ril not be seen behint them, 
Nor ’mang the sp’ritual core present 
them, 

Without at least, ae honest man. 

To grace thisdamnM infernal clan,” 
By Adambill a glance he threw, 

“ Lord God !” quoth he, “I have it 
now. 

There’s just the man I want, i’ faith,” 
And quickly stoppit Rankine’a 
breath. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Skauchinq auld wives’ barrels, 

Och, hon I the day ! 

That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 
But—what'll ye say ? 

These movin’ things ca’d wines and v^eans. 
Wad move the very heart o’ stanes. 


ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE 
REV. DR. B-’S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 
1 must and will deny; 

They say their master is a knave— 

And sure they do not lie. 


POVERTY. 

In politics if thou wouldst mix. 

And mean thy fortunes be; 

Bear this in mind,—be deaf and blind, 
Let great folks hear and see. 


ON A SCHOOLMASTER, 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie’s banes; 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 

Gie him the schoolin’ of your weans, 
For clever dells he’ll mak theml 




EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 


239 


LINES 

WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER 
OF YARICO IN THE DUMFRIES THEATRE, 1794. 

Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief 
Of Moses and his rod; 

At Yarico’s sweet notes of grief 
The rock with tears had flow’d. 


LINES. 


1 MURDER hate by field or flood, 
Tho’ glory’s name may screen us; 
In wars at hame I’ll spend my blood. 
Life-giving war of Venus. 


The deities that I adore 
Are social Peace and Plenty, 

I’m better pleased to make one more, 
Than be the death of twenty. 


LINES. 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING’S ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
’Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hearing; 
What are your landlords’ rent-rolls ? taxing ledgers: 
What premiers, what? even Monarchs’ mighty gaugers; 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ? 


LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasure©. 
Give me with gay Folly to live • 

I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But Folly has raptures to give. 


EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Tune—“ Killiecrankie." 


LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench’d his pamphlets in his fist, 
He quoted and he hinted. 

Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it ; 

He gaped for’t, he graped for’t, 

He fand it was awa, man, 

But what his common sense came 
short. 

He eked out wi’ law, man. ) 


MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open’d out his arm, man; 
His lordship sat wi’ ruefu’ e’e. 

And ey’d the gathering storm, man: 
Like wind-driv’n hail it did assail. 
Or torrents owre a linn, man; 

The Bench sae wise, lift up their 
eyes, 

Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man. 






240 


EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OP MISS BURNS. 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing. 

Lovely Burns has charms—confess; 

True it is, she had one failing. 

Had a woman ever less ? 

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times 
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art. 

The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE,l 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying. 

So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; 

But when he approach’d where poor Francis lay moaning, 

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning. 

Astonish’d! confounded! cry’d Satan, “By God, 

I’ll want ’im, ere I take such a damnable load.” 

EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE’S TRANSLATION OF 
MARTIAL’S EPIGRAMS.2 

O THOU whom Poetry abhors. 

Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 

Heard’st thou yon groan ?—proceed no further, 

’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther. 

EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, 

NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON. 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes. 

Who said that not the soul alone. 

But body too, must rise : 

For had he said, “The soul alone 
From death I will deliver,” 

Alas, alas! O Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever! 

* Captain Grose was extremely corpulent. This epigram was printed in the Scots 
Magazine, June, 1791. 

* Printed in the Glasgow Collection, 1801. In a letter toClarinda, in 1787, Burns refers 
to this epigram. “ Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone, 
who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphin¬ 
stone can only equal his prose-notes. I was sitting in a merchant’s shop of my ac¬ 
quaintance, waiting for somebody: he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my 
opinion of it; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did.’’ 




A bard’s epitaph. 


241 


EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC.^ 

Below tliir staues lie Jamie’s banes; 

O Death, it’s my opinion, 

Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin’ bitch 
Into thy dark dominion! 

EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY .2 

Hicjacet wee Johnny, 

Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know 
That death has murder’d Johnnie! 

An’ here Ids body lies fu’ low- 

For saul he ne’er had ony. 

EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter Hood in Death does sleep; 

To Hell, if he’s gaue thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He’ll hand it weel thegither. 

EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov’d, much honor’d name, 

(For none that knew him need be told) 

A warmer heart death ne'er made cold, 

EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Tete Poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps. 

Whom canting wretches blam’d; 

But with such as he, where’er he be, 

May I be sav’d or damn'd! 


A BARD’S EPITAPH. 


Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for 
rule, 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to 
snool, 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 
And drap a tear. 


Is there a Bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds 
among. 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by! 

But, with a frater-feeling strong. 
Here, heave a sigh. 


* The epitaph was printed in the Kilmarnock edition. “ Jamie was James Hunmhrey, 
a mason in Mauchline, who was wont to hold theological disputations with the Poet. 

2 “ Wee Johnny ” was John Wilson, the printer of the Kilmarnock edition, in which 
edition Burns wickedly inserted the epitaph. Wilson printed, unconscious that he had 
any other interest in the matter than a commercial one. 





242 


EPITAPH ON A WAG. 


Is there a man whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career. 
Wild as the wave; 
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting 
tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor Inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow. 


And softer flame, 

But thoughtless follies laid him low, 
And stain’d his name! 

Reader, attend—whether thy soul 
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the 
pole, 

Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
In low pursuit; 

Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
Is wisdom’s root. 


EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 

Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend! 
Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains. 

The tender father, and the geu’rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 

The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride, 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; 

“ For ev’n his failings loan’d to virtue’s side.” 


EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, 


INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE. 


Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; 

What was his religion ? 

What e’er desires to ken. 

To some other warl’ 

Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nanel 


Strong ale was ablution,— 
Small beer persecution, 

A dram was memento mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul. 

And port was celestial glory. 


EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

WRITER, IN DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest manl 
Cheat him. Devil, if you can. 


EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 


Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’, 
He aften did assist ye; 

For had ye staid whole weeks awa. 
Your wives they ne’er had miss’d 

ye. 


Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye 
pass 

To school in bands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass, 
Perhaps he was your father. 


^ Goldsmith, R. B. 







GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 


243 


EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED “ THE MARQUIS,” 


WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 


Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm’d, 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn’d. 

EPITAPH ON WALTER R-[RIDDEL]. 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave. 

That the worms ev’n damn’d him 
When laid in his grave. 

“ In his flesh there’s a famine,” 

A starv’d reptile cries; 

“ An’ his heart is rank poison,” 

Another replies. 

ON HIMSELF. 

FIere comes Burns 
On Rosinante; 

She’s d-poor. 

But he’s d-canty! 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore. 

Do thou stand us in need. 

And send us from thy bounteous store, 

A tup or wether head! Amen. 

ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE’S BRAINS. 

Lord, to account who dares thee call. 

Or e’er dispute thy pleasure ? 

Else why within so thick a wall 
Enclose so poor a treasure ? 


IMPROMPTU. 


ON AN INNKEEPER NAMED BACON WHO INTRUDED HIMSELF INTO ALL COMPANIES. 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer. 

And plenty of bacon each day in the year; 

We’ve all things that’s nice, and mostly in season. 

But why always Bacon —come, give me a reason ? 


ADDRESSED TO A LADY 


WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED, 


Rusticity’s ungainly form 
May cloud the highest mind; 


Propriety’s cold cautious rules 
Warm fervor may o’erlook; 


But when the heart is nobly warm 
The good excuse will find. 


But spare poor sensibility 


The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 





244 


ON MR. M‘MURDO. 


EPIGRAM. 

When -, deceased, to the devil went down, 

’Twas nothing would serve him but Satan’s own crown; 

“Thy fool’s head,” quoth Satan, “ that crown shall wear never, 
1 grant thou’rt as wicked, but not quite so clever,” 


LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. 


My blessing on ye, honest wife, 

I ne’er was here before; 

Ye’ve wealth o’ gear for spoon and 
knife— 

Heart could not wish for more. 


Heaven keep you clear of sturt and 
strife. 

Till far ayont four score, 

And by the Lord o’ death and life, 

I ne'er gae by your door 1 


TO -. 

Your billet, sir, I grant receipt; 

Wi’ you I’ll canter ony gate,- 

Though ’twere a trip to yon blue warl’, 
Whare birkies march on burning marl: 
Then, sir, God willing. I’ll attend 3 "e, 
And to his goodness I commend ye. 

R. Burns. 


ON MR. M‘MURDO.» 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day, 

No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray; 
No wrinkle furrow’d by the hand of care, 
Nor even sorrow add one silver hair! 

Oh, may no son the father’s honor stain. 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 


TO A LADY 

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. 

Pair maid, you need not take the hint, 
Nor idle texts pursue. 

’Twas guilty sinners that he meant— 

Not angels such as you! 


IMPROMPTU. 

How daur ye ca’ me howlet-faced. 
Ye ugly, glowering spectre ? 

My face was but the keekin’ glass. 
An’ there ye saw your picture. 


s These lines were inscribed on a pane of glass in Mr. M'Murdo’s house. 





TO A PAINTER. 


245 


TO MR. MACKENZIE, SURGEON, MAUCHLINE. 


Friday first’s the day appointed 
By the Right Worshipful ^ anointed. 
To hold your grand procession ; 

To get a blad o’ Johnie’s morals, 

And taste a swatch o’ Manson’s bar¬ 
rels 

I’ the way of our profession. 

The Master and the Brotherhood 
Would a’ be glad to see you; 


For me I would be mair than proud 
To share the mercies wi’ you. 

If Death, then, wi’ skaith, then. 
Some mortal heart is hechtin’. 
Inform him, and storm him. 
That Saturday you’ll fecht 
him. 

Robert Burns. 

MossgieU -An. M. 57^. 


TO A PAINTER. 


Dear- , I’ll gie ye some advice 

You’ll tak it no uncivil- 
You shouldna paint at angels mair. 
But try and paint the devil. 


LINES WRITTEN 

You’re welcome, Willie Stewart; 

You’re welcome, Willie Stewart; 
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in 
May, 

That’s half sae welcome’s thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your 
joy. 

The bowl we maun renew it; 


To paint an angel’s kittle wark, 

VVi’ auld Nick there’s less danger; 
You’ll easy draw a weel-kent face, 
But no sae weel a stranger. 


ON A TUMBLER.2 

The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben, 
To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be 
slack. 

Ilk action may he rue it; 

May woman on him turn her back. 
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart I 


ON xMR. W CRUIKSHANK 

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 

Honest Will to heaven is gane. 

And mony shall lament him; 

His faults they a’ in Latin lay. 

In English nane e’er kent them. 

1 The Right Worshipful Master, Major-General James Montgomery. On the 24th of 
June (St. John’s Day) the masonic club in Mauchline, of which Burns was a member, 
contemplated a procession. Burns sent the rhymed note to Dr. Mackenzie, with whom 
he had lately been discussing the origin of morals. 

2 This tumbler came into the possession of Sir Walter Scott, and is still preserved at 
Abbotsford. “ Willie Stewart ” was factor of the estate of Closeburn in Dumfriesshire. 
He died in 1812, aged 63. 







SONGS 


THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE.i 

Tune— “ Miss Forbes's Fareioell to Banff, or Ettrick Banks." 


’Twas even—the dewy fields were 
green, 

On every blade the pearls hang; 
The Zepliyrs wanton’d round the 
bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang * 
In every glen the Mavis sang. 

All nature listening seem’d the 
while; 

Except where green-wood echoes 
rang, 

Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray’d. 
My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy. 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy; 
Her look was like the morning’s eye, 
Her hair like nature’s vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper’d passing by. 
Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Autumn 
mild. 

When roving thro’ the garden gay. 
Or wandering in a lonely wild; 


But Woman, Nature’s darling child! 
There all her charms she does com¬ 
pile; 

Ev’n there her other works are foil’d 
By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed 
That ever rose on Scotland’s plain I 
Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain. 
With joy, with rapture, I would 
toil; 

And nightly to my bosom strain 
The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp’ry 
steep. 

Where fame and honors lofty shine; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the 
deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine. 
With the bonnie lass o’ Balloch- 
■ myle. 


SONG OF DEATH. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Scene —A field of battle. Time of the day—Evening. The wounded and dying of the 
victorious army are supposed to join in the song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies. 

Now gay with the broad setting sun! 

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties. 

Our race of existence is run! 


* This song was composed in honor of Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, sister of the Laird 
of Ballochmyle, whom Burns had met in one of his evening walks. 

246 




AULD ROB MORRIS. 


247 


Thou grim King of Terrors, tliou life’s gloomy foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave! 

Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant! but know, 
No terrors hast thou for the brave! 

Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark. 
Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name. 

Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame 1 

In the field of proud honor—our swords in our hands. 
Our King and our Country to save— 

While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands, 

OI who would not die with the brave! 


MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 


When o’er the hill the eastern star 
Tells bughtin-time is near, my 30: 
And owsen frae the furrow’d field 
Return sae dowf and wearie O; 
Down by the burn, where scented 
birks 

Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my 30, 
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O, 

If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie O. 


Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild 
And I were ne’er sae wearie O, 

I’d meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo’es the morning sun. 
To rouse the mountain deer, my 
30; 

At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 
Along the burn to steer, my 30; 

Gie me the hour o’ gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheery O 

To meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 


AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen. 

He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine. 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; 

She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay; 

As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea. 

And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh 1 she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird. 

And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed. 

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane: 

I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist. 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 




248 


DUNCAN GRAY. 


O had she but been of a lower degree, 

I then might hae hopM she wad smiled upon me; 
O how past describing had then been my bliss, 

As now my distraction no words can express! 


NAEBODY. 

I HAE a wife o’ my ain. 

I’ll partake wi’ naebody; 

I’ll tak cuckold frae nane. 

I’ll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There—thanks to naebody; 

I hae nothing to lend. 

I’ll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody’s lord, 

I’ll be slave to naebody; 

I hae a guid braid sword. 

I’ll tak dunts frae naebody. 

ril be merry and free. 

I’ll be sad for naebody; 

If naebody care for me. 

I’ll care for naebody, 

MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

She is a handsome wee thing, 

She is a bonnie wee thing, 

This sweet wee wife o’ mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo’ed a dearer. 

And neist my heart I’ll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

She is a handsome wee thing, 

She is a bonnie wee thing, 

This sweet wee wife o’ mine. 

The warld’s wrack, we share o’t, 

The warstle and the care o’t; 

Wi’ her I’ll blythely bear it. 

And think my lot divine. 

DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 


On blythe yule night when we were 
fou, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 
Maggie coost her head fu high. 
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh, 

Gart poor Duncan stand abcigh; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d; 
Ha, ha, etc. 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, 

Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’, 
Spak o’ lowpin o’er a linn; 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha. etc. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 

For a haughty hizzie die ? 

She may gae to—France for me I 
Ha, ha, etc. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Meg grew sick--^as he grew well, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Something in her bosom wrings. 

For relief a sigh she brings; 

And O, her een, they spak sic things 1 
Ha, ha, etc. 

Duncan was a lad o’ grace, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Maggie’s was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, etc. 

Duncan couldna be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; 
Now they’re crouse and cantie baith! 
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t. 

O POORTITH. 

Tune—“7 had a horse.'' 

O POORTITH cauld, and restless love 
Y'e wreck my peace between ye; 





LORD GREGORY. 


249 


Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, 

An’ ’twerena for my Jeauie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure 
have, 

Life’s dearest bands untwin¬ 
ing? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune’s shining ? 

This warld’s wealth when I think on, 
It’s pride, and a’ the lave o’t; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man. 

That he should be the slave o’t. 

O why, etc. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
IIow she repays my passion; 

But prudence is her o’erword aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 

O why, etc. 

O wha can prudence think upon. 
And sic a lassie by him ? 

O wha can prudence think upon. 
And sae in love as I am ? 

O why, etc. 

How blest the humble cotter’s fate! 

He WOOS his simple dearie; 

The silly bogles, wealth and state, 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure 
have. 

Life’s dearest bands untwin¬ 
ing? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend on Fortune’s shining ? 

GALLA WATER. 

There’s braw braw lads on Yarrow 
braes. 

That wander thro’ the blooming 
heather; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettrlck shaws 
Can match the lads o’ Galla Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better; 


And I’ll he his, and he’ll be mine. 
The bonnie lad o’ Galla Water. 

Altho’ his daddie was nae laird. 

And tho’ I hae nae meikle to cher; 
Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 
We’ll tent our flocks by Galla 
Water. 

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was 
wealth 

That coft contentment, peace or 
pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, 
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treas¬ 
ure. 

LORD GREGORY. 

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour. 
And loud the tempests roar; 

A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tow’r, 
Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An exile, frae her father’s ha’. 

And a’ for loving thee; 

At least some pity on me shaw. 

If love it mayna be. 

Lord Gregory, minds’t thou not the 
grove 

By bonnie Irwine side. 

Where first I own’d that virgin-love, 
I lang, lang had denied ? 

How aften didst thou pledge and 
vow. 

Thou would for aye be mine I 
And my fond heart;, itsel sae true, 

It ne’er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 
And flinty is thy breast; 

Thou dart of heaven that flashest by 
O wilt thou give me rest! 

Ye mustering thunders from above. 
Your willing victim see! 

But spare, and pardon my fause love 
His wrangs to heaven and me I 






250 


MEG o’ THE MILL. 


OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH! 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 


Oh, open the door, some pity to show, 

O, open the door to me, Oh I 

Tho’ thou hast been false. I’ll ever prove true, 
Oh, open the door to me, Oh! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh 1 

The w^an moon is setting behind the white v;ave. 
And time is setting with me. Oh! 

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair 
ril ne’er trouble them, nor thee. Oh! 

She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh! 

My true love, she cried, and sank dowm by his side, 
Never to rise again, Oh! 


MEG O’ THE MILL. 


Air— “ O, bonnie Lass, will you lie in a Barrack." 

O KEN ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten. 

An’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ? 

She has gotten a coof wi’ a claut o’ siller, 

And broken the heart o’ the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy, 

A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; 

The Laird was a widdiefu’, bleerit knurl; 

She’s left the guid fellow and ta’en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; 
The Laird did address her wi’ matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi’ a clear chained bridle, 

A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 

And wae on the love that is fix’d on a mailen! 

A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle. 

But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl 1 




LOGAN BRAES. 


251 


JESSIE A 

Tune— “ Bonnie Dundee." 

TRUE-liear ted was he, the sad sw^ain o’ the Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o’ the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river’ 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair; 

To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; 

Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close; 

But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie, 
Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 

Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law: 

And still to her charms she alone is a stranger I 
Her modest demeanor’s the jewel of a’. 


WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 

Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie. 

Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me! 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; 

How your dread howling a lover alarms 1 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows. 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 


But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain. 

LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune— “ Logan Water." 


O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie’s bride; 
And years sinsyne hae o’er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 


But now thy flow’ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes. 


^ The heroine of this song was Miss Tessie Staig. 






252 


PHILLIS THE FAIR. 


Again the merry month o’ May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
The bees hum round the breathing 
flowers; 

Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And evening’s tears are tears of joy: 
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys. 
While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn 
bush, 

Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil. 
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile: 
But I wi’ my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow’d nights and j oy less days. 
While Willie’s far frae Logan Braes. 

O wae upon you, men o’ state. 

That brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy 
days. 

And Willie hame to Logan Braes! 
THERE WAS A LASS.i 

Tune —“ Bonnie Jean." 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 
At kirk and market to be seen. 
When a’ the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie’s 
wark. 

And aye she sang sae merrily: 

The blythest bird upon the bush 
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest; 
And frost will blight the fairest flow¬ 
ers, [ rest. 

And love will break the soundest 

Young Robie was the brawest lad. 
The flower and pride of a’ the glen; 
And he had owsen, sheep and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

1 Miss Jean M‘Murdo of Drumlanrig. 


He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste. 

He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down; 
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was 
stown. 

As in the bosom o’ the stream 
The moon-beam dwells at dewy 
e’en; 

So trembling, pure, w^as tender love. 
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie’s 
wark. 

And aye she sighs wi’ care and 
pain; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be. 

Or what wad make her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light, 
And didna joy blink in her ee, 

As Robie tauld a tale o’ love, 

Ae e’eniu on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 
His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love: 

O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot. 
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me ? 

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge. 
Or naething else to trouble thee; 
But stray amang the heather-bells. 
And tent the waving corn wi’ me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na: 
At length she blush’d a sweet con¬ 
sent, [twa. 

And love was aye between them 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune— “ Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 
Fann’d the pure air. 

Tasting the breathing spring. 
Forth I did fare. 

Gay the sun’s golden eye 
Peep’d o’er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn! did I cry, 
Phillis the fair. 





WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 253 


In. each bird’s careless song 
Qlad did I share; 

While yon wild flowers among, 
Chance led me there ; 

Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom! did I say, 
Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were, 

I mark'd the cruel hawk 
Caught in a snare • 

So kind may Fortune be. 

Such make his destiny, 

He who would injure thee, 
Phillis the fair. 

BY ALLAN STREAM. 

Tune—‘-^W an Water." 

By Ahan stream I chanc’d to rove. 
While Phoebus sank beyond Ben- 
leddi; 

The winds were whispering thro’ the 
grove. 

The yellowcorn was waving ready; 
I listen’d to a lover’s sang, 


And thought on youthfu’ pleasures 
monie; 

And aye the wild wood echoes rang— 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower, 
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie; 

Nor ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie I 

Her head upon my throbbing breast, 
She, sinking, said “Pm thine for 
ever!” 

While monie a kiss the seal imprest. 
The sacred vow, we ne’er should 
sever. 

The haunt o’ spring’s the primrose 
brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to fol¬ 
low ; 

How cheery thro’ her shortening day 
Is autumn, in her weeds o’ yellow! 

But can they melt the glowing heart. 
Or chain the soul in speechless 
pleasure. 

Or, thro’ each nerve the rapture dart, 
Like meeting her, our bosom's 
treasure. 


HAD I A CAVE. 


T’tne—" Robin Adair." 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 

Where the winds howl to the waves dashing roar; ^ 
There would I weep my woes. 

There seek my lost repose. 

Till grief my eyes should close, 

Ne’er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air ? 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o’er thy perjury. 

Then in thy bosom try. 

What peace is there 1 


WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. . 

Tune—“ Jlfy Jo, Janet." 

O WHISTLE, and I’ll come to you, my lad; 

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad 
Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, 

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad. 





254 


DELUDED SWAIN. 


But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the black-yett be a-jee; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 

And come, etc. 

O whistle, etc. 

At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me. 
Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black ee. 
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. 

Yet look, etc. 

O whistle, etc. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; 
But court na anither, tho’ jokin ye be. 

For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, etc. 

O whistle, etc. 


HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE 
YOUR STRIFE. 

Tune— “ My Jo, Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your strife. 
Nor longer idly rave, sir; 

Tho’ I am your wedded wife. 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

“ One of two must still obey. 

Nancy, Nancy; 

Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ? ” 

If ’tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience; 

I’ll desert my sov’reign lord. 

And so good-bye allegiance 1 

“ Sad will I be, yo bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy! 

Yet I’ll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy.” 

My poor heart then break it must. 
My last hour I’m near it: 

When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

“I will hope and trust in Heaven, 
Nancy, Nancy; 

Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy.” 


Well, sir, from the silent dead 
Still I’ll try to daunt you; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

“ I’ll wed another, like my dear 
Nancy, Nancy; 

Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy.” 

DELUDED SWAIN. 

Tune —“ The Collier's Dochter." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee. 

Is but a fairy treasure. 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean 
The breezes idly roaming. 

The clouds’ uncertain motion. 

They are but types of woman. 

OI art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature? 

If man thou wouldst be named, • 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow : 

Good claret set before thee; 

Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 




ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 


255 


SONG. 

Tune— “ The Quaker's Wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy, 

Ev’ry pulse along my veins, 

EvTy roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 

There to throb anti languish: 

Tho’ despair had wrung its core 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips, 

Rich with balmy treasure! 

Turn away thine eyes of love. 

Lest I die with pleasure! 

What is life when wanting love? 

Night without a morning! 

Love’s the cloudless summer sun. 
Nature gay adorning. 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

A NEW SCOTS SONG. 

Tune— “ The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart 
Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That’s the love I bear thee! 

I swear and vow that only thou 
Shalt ever be my dearie— 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shalt ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo’es me; 

Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 

Say na thou’lt refuse me: 

If it winna, canna be, 

Thou for thine may choose me, 

Let me, lassie, quickly die. 

Trusting that thou lo’es me— 

Lassie, let me quickly die. 

Trusting that thou lo’es me. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Tune— “ The Flowers of Edinburgh." 

Here is the glen, and here the 
bower. 

All underneath the birchen shade; 
The village-bell has toll’d the hour, 

O what can stay my lovely maid ? 


’Tis not Maria’s whispering call; 

’Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler’s <lying fall. 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria’s voice I hear! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once ’tis music—and ’tis love. 

And art thou come? and art thou 
true ? 

O welcome, dear, to love and me! 
And let us all our vows renew. 
Along the flow’ry banks of Cree. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR 
AWAY. 

Tune —“ O'er the Hills and far Away." 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my Sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego. 

He’s on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove. 

Still my heart is with'my love; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that’s far aw'ay. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 

On stormy seas and far away; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by 
day 

Are aye with him that’s far away 

When in summer’s noon I faint. 

As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My Sailor’s thund’ring at his gun 
Bullets, spare my onl^ joy! 

Bullets, spare my darling boy ’ 

Fate, do with me what you may. 
Spare but him that’s far away ! 

On the seas, etc 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless 
power; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling ;oar. 
Surging on the rocky shore, 







256 


SHE SAYS SHE LO’ES ME BEST OF A' 


All I can—I weep and pray, 

For his weal that’s far away. 

On the seas, etc. 

Peace, thy olive wrnd extend. 

And bid wild War his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet. 

And as a brother kindly greet: 

Then may heaven with prosp’rous 
gales 

Fill my Sailor’s welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey, 

My dear lad that’s far away. 

On the seas, etc. 

HARK! THE MAVIS. 

Tune— “ Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes." 
CHORUS. 

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 

Ca’ them where the heather grows, 
Ca’ them where the burnie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis’ evening sang 
Sounding Clouden’s woods amang, 
Then a faulding let us gang, 

My bonnie dearie. 

Ca’ the, etc. 

We’ll gae down by Clouden side, 
Thro’ the hazels spreading wide, 
O’er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Ca’ the, etc. 

Yonder Olouden’s silent towers. 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O’er the dewy-bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ca’ the, etc. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 
Thou’rt to love and Heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near. 

My bonnie dearie. 

Ca’ the, etc. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 

Thou hast stown my very heart; 

I can die—but canna part. 

My bonnie dearie. 

Ca’ the, etc. 


While waters wimple to the sea; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my ee, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 

Ca’ the, etc. 

SHE SAYS SHE LO’ES ME 
BEST OF A’. 

Tune— “ Onagh's Water-fzlV 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o’erarching 

Twa laughing een o’ bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae wyling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow! 

Such was my Chloris’ bonnie face. 
When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm, 
She says she lo’es me best of a’. 

Like harmony her motion; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky; 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and gracefu’ air; 
Ilk feature—auld Nature 
Declar’d that she could do nae 
mair: 

Hers are the willing chains o’ love. 
By conquering beauty’s sovereign 
law; 

And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm. 
She says she lo’es me best of a’. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming 

Her silver light the boughs amang; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his 
sang 

There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou 
rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o’ truth and love, 
And say thou lo’es me best of a’ ? 





LASSIE Wl’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS. 


257 


HOW LANG AND DREARY. 

Tune —“ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ” 

How lang and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary. 

CHORUS. 

For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her widow’d heart is sair, 
That’s absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi’ thee, my dearie, 

And now that seas between us roar. 
How can I be but eerie! 

For oh, etc. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; 

The joyless day how drearie! 

It wasna sae ye glinted by. 

When 1 was wi’ my dearie. 

For oh, etc. 

THE LOVER’S MORNING 
SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS.^ 

Tune— “ Deil takthe Wars." 

SLEEP’sTthou, orwak’st thou, fairest 
creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 
Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy; 

Now thro’ the leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods. 

Wild Nature’s tenants freely, gladly 
stray: 

The lintwhite in his bower 
Chants o’er the breathing flower; 
The lav’rock to the sky 
Ascends wi’ sangs o’ joy. 

While the sun and thou arise to bless 
the day. 

Phoebus gilding the brow 0’ morning. 
Banishes ilk darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning; 
Such to me my lovely maid. 

‘ The heroine of this song was Miss Lori- 
mer, of Craigieburn. 


When absent frae my fair. 

The murky shades o’ care 
With starless gloom o’ercast my sul¬ 
len sky; 

But when, in beauty’s light. 

She meets my ravish’d sight, 
When thro’ my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart— 

Tis then I wake to life, to light, and 

joy- 

LASSIE Wr THE LINT- 
WHITE LOCKS,i 

Tune— “ Rothiemurelms's Rant." 
CHORUS. 

Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a’ is young and sweet like thee; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me, 
And say thou’ll be my dearie O ? 
Lassie wi’, etc. 

And when the welcome simmer- 
shower 

Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower. 
We’ll to the breathing woodbine 
bower 

At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi’, etc. 

When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray. 
The weary shearer’s hamew'ard w^ay. 
Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray, 
And talk o’ love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi’, etc. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu’ breast. 

I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks ? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 

* In sending this song to Mr. Thomson, 
November, 1794, Burns says :—“This piece 
has at least the merit of being a regular 
pastoral ; the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the win- 
' ter night, are regularly rounded.” 


9 




258 


CONTENTED Wl’ LITTLE. 


THE AULD MAN.> 

Tune— “ The Death of the Linnet." 

But lately seen in gladsome green 
The woods rejoic'd the day, 

Thro’ gentle showers the laughing 
flowers 

In double pride were gay: 

But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa! 

Yet maiden May, in rich array. 
Again shall bring them a’. 

But my white pow', nae kindly thowe 
Shall melt the snaws of age; 

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. 
Sinks in time’s wintry rage. 

Olr, age has weary days. 

And nights o’ sleepless pain! 

Thou golden time o’ youthfu’ prime. 
Why com’st thou not again ? 

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.2 

Tune— “ iVaricy’s to the Greenwood gane." 

Fare^vell, thou stream that winding 
flows 

Around Eliza’s dwelling I 


O Mem’ry 1 spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling; 
Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain, 
And yet in secret languish. 

To feel a fire in ev’ry vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, un¬ 
known, 

I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting 
groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 

I know thou doom'st me to despair. 
Nor wilt nor canst relieve me; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer. 

For pity’s sake forgive me! 

The music of thy voice I heard. 

Nor wist while it enslav’d me; 

I saw thine eyes, yet nothing 
fear’d. 

Till fears no more had sav’d me: 
Th’ unwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
’Mid circling horrors sinks at last 
In overwhelming ruin. 


CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE.^ 

Tune— o’ pudding." 

Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair. 

Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care, 

I gie them a skelp as they’re creepin’ alang, 

Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

1 whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought; 

But man is a soger, and life is a faught: 

My mirth and gude humor are coin in my pouch, 

And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 


» With reference to this song Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 1794 “ 1 en- 

cJose you a musical curiosity, an East Indian air, which you would swear was a Scot¬ 
tish one. 1 know the authenticity of it, as the gentleman who brought it over is a 
particular acquaintance of mine. . . . Here follow the verses I intend for it.” 

2 Burns sent the first draft of this song to Mr. Thomson in April, 1793. It was then 
addressed to Maria (supposed to be Mrs. Riddel). When he sent the version in the text 
to Mr. Thomson in November, 1794, he had made some inconsiderable alterations, and 
substituted Eliza for Maria. 

® Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, November, 1794 ” Scottish bacchanalians we cer¬ 

tainly want, though the few we have are excellent. . . Apropos to bacchanalian 
songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday for an air 1 like much. Lumps o' Pudding " 
Burns tells Mr. Thomson in a passage suppressed by Currie, that he intended this song 
as a picture of his own mind. 




O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET ? 


259 


A towmoad o’ trouble, should that be my fa’, 

A night o’ glide fellowship sowthers it a^; 

When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 

Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past ? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae: 

Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain. 
My warst word is—“ Welcome, and welcome again! ” 


MY NANNIE’S AWA.i 

Tune— “ There'll never be peace till Jamie come shame." 

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays. 

And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes. 
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw; 

But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa. 

The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn; 

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o’ Nannie—my Nannie’s awa. 

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o’ the lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o’ the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou, yellow mavis, that hails the night-fa’, 

Gie over for pity—my Nannie’s awa. 

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray. 

And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay; 

The dark, dreary winter, and wild driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa. 


SWEET FA’S THE EVE.2 

Tune— “ Craigieburn-wood." 

Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blythe awakes the morrow. 

But a’ the pride o’ spring’s return 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But what a weary wight can please. 
And care his bosom wringing? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart. 
Yet dare na for your anger; 

But secret love will break my heart. 
If I conceal it langer. 


If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou shalt love anither. 

When yon green leaves fa’ frae the 
tree, 

Around my grave they’ll wither, 

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEP¬ 
ING YET ? 

Tune— “ Let me in this ae night." 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 

Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? 

For love has bound me hand and 
foot. 

And I would fain be in, jo. 


1 Clarinda was the heroine of this sonp:. 

* The heroine of this song was Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. 

18—Burns-^L 




26 o 


SONG. 


CHORUS. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night; 

For pity’s sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear’st the winter wind and 
weet, 

Nay star blinks thro’ the driving 
sleet; 

Tak pity on my weary feet. 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 

O let me in, etc. 

The bitter blast, that round me blaws. 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s; 

The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause 
Of a’ my grief and pain, jo. 

O let me in, etc. 

HER ANSWER, 

O TELL na me o’ wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain! 
Gae back the gate ye cam again, 

I winna let you in, jo. 


CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night. 
This ae, ae, ae night; 

And ance for a’ this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 

That round the pathless w^and’rer 
pours. 

Is nocht to what poor she endures. 
That’s trusted faithless man, jo. 

I tell you now, etc. 

The sweetest flower that deck’d the 
mead. 

Now trodden like the vilest weed; 

Let simple maid the lesson read. 

The weird may be her ain, jo. 

I tell you now, etc. 

The bird that charm’d his summer 
day 

Is now the cruel fowder’s prey; 

Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate’s the same, jo. 

I tell you now, etc. 


SONG.* 


Tune— “ Humors of Glen." 

Their groves o’ sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon. 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, 

Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 

Where the blue-bell and go wan lurk lowly unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys. 

And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave ; 

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace 
What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! 

The slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. 

The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain; 

He wanders as free as the winds of the mountains, 

Save love’s willing fetters, the chains o’ his Jean. 

* In May, 1795, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson : The Irish air. Humors of Glen., is a 
^reat favorite of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not 
any decent verses for it, I have written for it as follows.” 





MARK YONDER POMP. 


261 


’TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EE. 

Tune.—“ Laddie^ lie near me.” 

’Twas na her bonnie blue ee was my ruin: 

Fair tlio’ she be, that was ne’er my undoing; 

’Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 

’Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance 0’ kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 

Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 

But tho’ fell fortune should fate us to sever, 

Queen shall she be in my bosom forever. 

Chloris, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest, 

And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest! 

And thou’rt the angel that never can alter, 

Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 


ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

Tune.—“ WhereHl bonnie Ann lie." 

O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, 
stay. 

Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 

Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part. 

That I may catch thy melting art; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 

And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
O, nocht but love and sorrow join’d 
Sic notes o’ wae could wauken. 

Thou tells o’ never-ending care; 

O’ speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, naemair! 
Or my poor heart is broken? 

HOW CRUEL ARE THE 
PARENTS. 

Tune—“ JoAn, Anderson my Jo." 

How cruel are the parents 
Who riches only price. 

And to the wealthy booby 
Poor woman sacrifiee. 


Meanwhile the hapless daughter 
Has but a choice of strife; 

To shun a tyrant father’s hate. 
Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 
The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 
A while her pinions tries; 

Till of escape despairing. 

No shelter or retreat. 

She trusts the ruthless falconer, 
And drops beneath his feet. 


MARK YONDER POMP. 

Tune—“ Deil tak the IFars.” 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fash¬ 
ion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride*. 
But when compar’d with real pas¬ 
sion. 

Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are their showy treasures ? 
What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and 
art; 

The polish’d jewel’s blaze 
May draw the wond’ring gaze, 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 






262 


FORLORN MY LOVE. 


But never, never can come near the 
heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 
In simplicity’s array; 

Lovely as yonder sweet opening 
flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming. 

And all resistless charming. 

In love’s delightful fetters she chains 
the willing soul! 

Ambition would disowm 
The world’s imperial crown; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp’d deity. 

And feel thro’ every vein Love’s rap¬ 
turous roll. 

I SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. 

Tune— “ This is no my ain house.'''' 

O THIS is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho’ the lassie be; 

O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face. 

Ye w^eel may wi’ the fairest place: 

It wants, to me, the witching 
grace. 

The kind love that’s in her ee. 

O this is no, etc. 

She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and 
tall, 

And lang has had my heart in 
thrall; 

And aye it charms my very saul. 
The kind love that’s in her ee. 

O this is no, etc. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 

To steal a blink, by a’ unseen, 

But gleg as light are lovers’ een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 

O this is no, etc. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 

It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that’s in her ee. 

O this is no, etc. 


O BONNIE WAS Y^ON ROSY 
BRIER. 

Tune— “ I wish my love was in a mire.''' 

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae fair frae haunt o’ 
man; 

And bonnie she, and ah, how dear 1 
It shaded frae the e’enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
How pure amang the leaves sae 
green; 

But purer w^as the lover’s vow 
They witness’d in their shade yes¬ 
treen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 
That crimson rose, how sweet and 
fair! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life’s thorny path o’ care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling 
burn, 

Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine; 
And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 

FORLORN, MY LOVE. 

Tune— “ Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort 
near. 

Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far. far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

O wert thou, love, but near me. 
But near, near, near me; 

How kindly thou wouldst, cheer 
me. 

And mingle sighs with mine, 
love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
O wert, etc. 





LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 


263 


Cold, alter’d friendship’s cruel part, 
To poison fortune’s ruthless dart— 
Let me not break thy faithful heart. 
And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, etc. 


But dreary tho’ the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, etc. 


LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune— “ Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 

And sair wi’ his love he did deave me; 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 

The deuce gae wi’m to believe me, believe me, 

The deuce gae wi’m to believe me. 

He spak o’ the darts in my bonnie black een. 

And vow’d for my love he was dying; 

I said he might die when he liked for Jean 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgie me for lying 1 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird. 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: 

I never loot on that I kend it, or car’d; 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ! in a fortnight or less, 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jadl I could bear her. 

But a’ the niest week as I fretted wi’ care, 

I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there. 

I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy; ^ 

My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink. 

And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 

And vow’d I was his dear lassie. 

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet. 

Gin she had recover’d her hearin. 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet— 

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin. 

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin. 




264 


ALTHO’ THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 


He begged, for Gudesake! I wad be his wife, 

Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow; 

So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 


HEY FOR A LASS WF A TOCHER. 

Tune— “ Balinamona ora." 

Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms. 

The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms: 

O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms, 

O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms. 

CHORUS. 

Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher; then hey, for a lass 
wi’ a tocher. 

Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher; the nice yellow 
guineas for me. 

Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows, 

And withers the faster, the faster it grows; 

But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes. 

Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes. 

Then hey, etc. 

And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest. 

The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest; 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest, 

The langer ye hae them—the mair they’re caresst. 

Then hey, etc. 

ALTHO’ THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE.* 

Tune— “ Here's health to them that's awa, Hiney." 

CHORUS. 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, 

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear; 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 

And soft as their parting tear—Jessy! 

Altho’ thou maun never be mine, 

Altho’ even hope is denied; 

’Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 

Than aught in the world beside—Jessy! 

Here’s a health, etc. 

* About May 17, 1796, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson “ I once mentioned to you an 
air which I have Ions admired, Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney, but I forget 
if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg 
leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.” 
Jessie, the heroine of the song, was Miss Jessie Lawars, who acted as nurse during the 
poet’s illness. 






STAY, MY CHARMER. 


265 


I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms: 

But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber. 
For then I am lockt in thy arms—Jessy 1 
Here’s a health, etc. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee; 

But why urge the tender confession 
’Gainst fortune’s cruel decree—Jessy! 
Here’s a health, etc. 


THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.' 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, 
will ye go, 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the 
Birks of Aberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o’er the crystal streamlet plays. 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 

While o’er their heads the hazels liing. 
The little birdies blithely sing. 

Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 

The braes ascend life lofty wa's. 

The foaming stream deep roaring 
fa’s, 

O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading 
shaws. 

The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 

The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ 
flowers. 

White o’er the linns the burnie pours. 
And rising, weets wi’ misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 

Let fortune’s gifts at random flee. 
They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi’ love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 


THE YOUNG HIGHLAND 
ROVER. 

Tune—“ Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 
Where’er he go, where’er he stray, 
May Heaven be his warden; 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon! 

The trees now naked groaning. 

Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging. 
The birdies dowie moaning. 

Shall a’ be blithely singing. 

And every flower be springing, 

Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day. 
When by his mighty warden 
My youth’s return’d to fair Strath¬ 
spey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon. 

STAY, MY CHARMER. 

Tune—“ An gille dubh ciar dhubh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me! 

Well you know how much you grieve 
me; 

Cruel charmer, can you go? 

Cruel charmer, can you go? 

By my love so ill requited; 

By the faith you fondly plighted; 
By the pangs of lovers slighted; 

Do not, do not leave me so! 

Do not, do not leave me so! 


1 Burns composed this song while standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, near Moness, 
in Perthshire. September, 1787. 




266 


MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 


FULL WELL THOU KNOW’ST.* 

Tune— “ Rothiemurchus's rant." 
CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou wert wont to 
do? 

Full well thou know’st I love thee 
dear, 

Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ? 
O did not love exclaim, “ Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ? ” 
Fairest maid, etc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall 
know. 

Fairest maid, etc. 


STRATHALLAN’S I.AMENT.2 

Thickest night, o’erhang my dwell¬ 
ing ! 

Howling tempests, o’er me rave! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
Still surround my lonely cave! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 
Western breezes softly blowing, 

Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engag’d. 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 
Honor’s war we strongly wag’d. 

But the heavens deny’d success. 

Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us. 

Not a hope that dare attend; 

The wide world is all before us— 
But a world without a friend' 

»This was the last song composed by 
Burns. It was written at Brow, on the 
Solway Frith, a few days before his death. 

* William, fourth viscount of Strath- 
allan, fell at the battle of Culloden, while 
serving on the side of the rebels. 


RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING.* 

Tune- M'Gregor of Ruara's lament." 
Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strow- 
idg, 

By a river hoarsely roaring, 

Isabella stray’d deploring: 

“ Farewell, hours that late did meas¬ 
ure 

Sunshine days of joy and pleasure; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no mor¬ 
row ! 

“ O’er the past too fondly wandering. 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 

Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 

O, how gladly I’d resign thee. 

And to dark oblivion join thee! 

MUSING ON THE ROARING 
OCEAN.2 

Tune—“ Drwmion dubh." 
Musing on the roaring ocean 
Which divides my love and me; 
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion 
For his weal where’er he be. 

Hope and fear’s alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature’s law; 
Whisp’ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that’s far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 
Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that’s far awa I 

* “ 1 composed these verses on Miss 
Isabella M‘Leod of Raasay, alluding to 
her feelings on the death of her sister, and 
the still more melancholy death of her 
sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudon, 
who shot himself out of sheer heart-break, 
at some mortifications he suffered, owing 
to the deranged state of his finances.”—B, 

* ” 1 composed these verses out of com- 
liment to a Mrs. Maclachlan, whose bus. 
and is an officer in the East Indies.”—B. 




THE LAZY MIST. 


267 


BLITHE WAS SHE.' 

Tune— “ Andro and his cuttie gun." 
CHORDS. 

Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe was she but and ben: 
Blithe by the banks of Ern, 

And blithe in Glenturit glen. 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ; 
But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o’ Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, etc. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a summer morn; 
She tripped by the banks of Ern 
As light’s a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, etc. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 
As onie lamb’s upon a lee; 

The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet 
As was the blink o’ Phemie’s ee. 
Blithe, etc. 

The Highland hills I’ve wander’d 
wide, 

And o’er the Lowlands I hae been; 


But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, etc. 


PEGGY’S CHARMS.a 

Tune. —“ Neil Gow's lamentation for 
Ahercairny." 

Where, braving angry winter’s 
storms. 

The lofty Ochils rise. 

Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms 
First blest my wondering eyes. 

As one who, by some savage stream, 
A lonely gem surveys, 

Astonish’d doubly, marks its beam 
With art’s most polish’d blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade, 
And blest the day and hour. 

Where Peggy’s charms I first sur¬ 
vey’d 

When first I felt their pow’r! 

The tyrant death with grim con¬ 
trol 

May seize my fleeting breath: 

But tearing Peggy from my soul 
Must be a stronger death. 


THE LAZY MIST. 

Irish Air— “ Coolun." 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear. 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown. 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues; 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain 
How little of life’s scanty span may remain: 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain’d I 

And downward, how weaken’d, how darken’d, how pain’d! 

This life’s not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must ve. 

’ The heroine of this song was Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was an in 
mate of Ochtertyre House, when Burns was there on a visit. 

* The heroine of this song was Miss Margaret Chalmers. 





268 


I LOVE MY JEAN. 


A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK.i 

Tune— “27ie Shepherd's Wife." 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled. 
In a’ its crimson glory spread, 

And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 

The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves be¬ 
dew’d. 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and 

gay, 

Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent’s evening ray 
That watch’d thy early morning. 

TIBBIE, IHAE SEEN THE DAY.2 

Tune— “/nuercawid’s reel." 
CHORUS. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. 

Ye would na been sae shy; 

For laik o’ gear ye lightly me. 

But, trowth, I care na by. 

* This song was written in celebration 
of Miss Jeanie Cruikshank, daughter of 
Mr. Cruikshank, of the High School, Edin¬ 
burgh. 

2 This song was composed by Burns when 
he was about seventeen years of age. The 
subject was a girl in ’his neighborhood 
named Isabella Steven, or Stein. Accord¬ 
ing to Allan Cunningham, “ Tibbie was 
the daughter of a pensioner of Kyle—a 
man with three acres of peat moss—an 


Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure. 
Y^e geek at me because I’m poor. 

But fient a hair care I. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think. 
Because ye hae the name o’ clink. 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene’er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie, I. hae, etc. 

But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, 
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin w^ere clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart. 

If that he want the yellow dirt. 

Ye’ll cast your head anither airt. 
And answer him fu’ dry. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

But if he hae the name o’ gear. 

Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 

Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear. 

Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, 

Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price. 
Were ye as poor as I. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 

I would na gie her in her sark. 

For thee wi’ a’ thy thousand mark; 
Ye need na look sae high. 

O Tibbie, I hae, etc. 

I LOVE MY JEAN.i 

Tune— “ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strath* 
spey.” 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 

For there the bonnie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo’e best: 

inheritance which she thought entitled 
her to treat a landless wooer with dis¬ 
dain.” 

^ “ This song,” Burns writes in a note, 
” I composed out of compliment to Mrs. 
Burns.” 





THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE. 


269 


There wild woods grow, and rivers 
row 

And monie a hill between; 

But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever wi’ my Jean. 

1 see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 

1 hear her in the tunefu’'birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 

There’s not a bonnie flower that 
springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings. 
But minds me o’ my Jean. 

O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS’ 
HILLli 

Tune— “ My Love is lost to me.” 

O, w'ERE I on Parnassus’ hill! 

Or had of Helicon my fill; 

That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 

But Nith maun be my Muse’s well, 
My Muse maun be tliy bonnie seP, 
On Corsincon I’ll glowr and spell. 
And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my 
lay! 

For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day, 

1 could na sing, I could na say, 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
1 see thee dancing o’er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae 
clean, 

Thy tempting looks, thy roguish 
een— 

By Heaven and earth I love thee I 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o’ thee my breast in¬ 
flame; 

And aye I muse and sing thy name— 
I only live to love thee. 

Tho’ I were doomed to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 

Till my last weary sand was run; 
Till then—and then I’d love thee. 

^ This song was also composed out of 
compliment to Mrs. Burns. Corsincon is 
a hill at the head of Nithsdale, beyond 
which Mrs. Burns lived before the Poet 
brought her home to Ellisland. 


THE BLISSFUL DAY.' 

Tune— “ Seuenf/i of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns. 
The blissful day we twa did meet; 
Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d. 
Ne’er summer-sun was half sae 
sweet. 

Than a’ the pride that loads the tide, 
And crosses o’er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and 
globes. 

Heaven gave me^more, it made 
thee mine. 

While day and night can bring de¬ 
light. 

Or nature aught of pleasure give; 
While joys above my mind can move, 
For thee, and thee alone, 1 live! 
When that grim foe of life below 
Comes in between to make us part; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 
It breaks my bliss—it breaks my 
heart. 

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE .2 
Tune—” Miss Forbes's farewell to Banff." 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 
The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green. 
But nature sicken’d on the ee. 
Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, 
Hersel in beauty’s bloom the whyle, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 
Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair; 
Y"e birdies dumb, in with’ring bow¬ 
ers. 

Again ye’ll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas! for me nae mair 
Shall birdie charm, or floweret 
smile; 

‘ With regard to this song Burns writes— 
” I composed it out of compliment to one 
of the happiest and worthiest married 
couples in the world, Robert Riddel, of 
Glenriddel, and his lady.” 

2 •' Composed on the amiable and ex¬ 
cellent family of Whitefoord leaving Bal¬ 
lochmyle, when Sir John’s misfortunes 
obliged him to sell the estate.”—B. 





JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 


270 


Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Balloch- 
myle. 

THE HAPPY TRIO.* 

Tune —“ Willie brexo'd a peck o’ maut.” 

O, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, 
And Rob and Allan cam to see; 
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang 
night. 

Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We are na fou, we’re no that fou. 
But just a drappie in our ee; 
The cock may craw, the day may 
daw. 

And aye we’ll taste the barley 
bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we; 
And monie a night we’ve merry been, 
And monie mae we hope to be! 

We are na fou, etc. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 
That’s blinkin in the lift sae hie; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 
But by my sooth she’ll wait a wee! 
We are na fou, etc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,^ 

A cuckold, coward loun is he! 
Wha first beside his chair shall fa’. 
He is the King among us three! 
We are na fou, etc. 

^ Burns writes concerning this song 
“ The air is -Masterton’s, the song mine. 
The occasion o£ it was this : Mr. William 
Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, 
during the Autumn vacation, being at 
Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time 
on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay 
Nicol a visit. We had such a joyous meet¬ 
ing, that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each 
in our own way, that we should celebrate 
the business. 

® In many editions this line is printed. 
“Wha last beside his chair shall fa.” In 
Johnson’s “ Museum ” it is given as in the 
text. It seems more in accordance with 
the splendid bacchanalian frenzy that he 
should be king who 

Rushed into the field and foremost fight¬ 
ing fell. 


THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.* 

Tune— “ The blathrie o’f.” 

I GAED a w^aefu’ gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear. I’ll dearly rue; 

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
Twa lovely een o’ bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 
Her lips like roses wat wi’ dew, 
Her heaving bosom lily-wdiite;— 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she 
wyl’d. 

She charm’d my soul I wist na 
how; 

And aye the stound, the deadly 
wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to 
speed; 

She’ll aiblins listen to my vow: 
Should she refuse. I’ll lay my dead 
To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 


JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 

Your locks were like the raven. 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 

But now your brow is held, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 

And monie a canty day, John, 

We’ve had wi’ ane anither: 

Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we’ll go. 

And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 

Victory does not lie in stamina or endur 
ance. For the moment intoxication is 
the primal good, and he is happiest who is 
first intoxicated. 

^ At Lochmaben Burns spent an evening 
at the manse with the Rev. Andrew Jef¬ 
frey. His daughter Jean, a blue-eyed 
blonde of seventeen, presided at the tea- 
table. Next morning at breakfast the 
poet presented the young lady with the 
song. 




MY tocher’s the JEWEL. 


271 


TAM GLEN.i 

Tunu—“ The mucking o' Geordie's byre." 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie, 
Some counsel unto me come len’, 

To anger them a’ is a pity; 

But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen ? 

I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith 1 might mak a fen’ ; 

AVhat care I in riches to wallow. 

If 1 maunna marry Tam Glen ? 

There’s Lowrie the laird o’ Dumeller, 
“Guid-day to you,” brute! he 
comes ben: ' 

He brags and he braws o’ his siller. 
But when will he dance like Tam 
Glen? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o’ young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me; 
But wha can think sae o’ Tam 
Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him. 
He’ll gie me guid hunder marks 
ten; 

But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten; 

For thrice 1 drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam 
Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; 


His likeness cam up the housG 
staukin— 

And the very gray breeks 0 ’ Tam 
Glen I 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t 
tarry; 

I’ll gie you my bonnie black hen. 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad 1 lo’e dearly, Tam Glen. 

GANE IS THE DAY. 

Tune— “ Guidtvife count the lawin." 

GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night. 
But we’ll ne’er stray for faute o’ light. 
For ale and brandy’s stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine’s the risin’ sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the 
lawin, the lawin. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, and 
bring a coggie mair. 

There’s wealth and ease for gentle¬ 
men. 

And semple-folk maun fecht and 
fen’. 

But here we’re a’ in ae accord. 

For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. 

Then guidwife count, etc. 

My coggie is a haly pool. 

That heals the wounds 0 ’ care and 
dool; 

An’ pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An’ ye drink it a’ ye’ll find him out. 

Then guidwife count, etc. 


MY TOCHER’S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o’ my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin; 

But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 
My Tocher’s the jewel has charms for him. 

It’s a’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree; 

It’s a’ for the hiney he’ll cherish the bee; 

My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller. 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

* This song appears in the “ Museum ” with Burns’ name attached. Mrs. Begg main¬ 
tained that It was an old song which her brother brushed up and retouched. 




2/2 


THE BONNIE WEE THING. 


Your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny, 

My Tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy; 

But an ye be crafty, 1 am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi’ anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood; 

Ye’re like to the bark o’ yon rotten tree; 
Ye’ll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye’ll crack your credit wi’ mae nor me. 


WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI’ AN AULD MAN ? 

Tune— “ What can a Lassie do." 

What can a young lassie, .what shall a young lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man ? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ Ian ! 

Bad luck on the penny, etc. 

He’s always compleenin frae mornin to e’enin, 

He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: 

He’s doylt and he’s dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 

O, dreary’s the night wi’ a orazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 

I never can please him do a’ that 1 can; 

He’s peevish, and jealous of a’ the young fellows; 

O, dool on the day, I met wi’ an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity. 

I’ll do my endeavor to follow her plan; 

I’ll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him, 

And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 


O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, 
TAM! 

Tune— “ The Mondiewort." 
CHORUS. 

An O for aue and twenty, Tam I 
An hey, sweet ane and twenty, 
Tam! 

I’ll learn my kin a rattlin sang. 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 

They snool me sair, and hand me 
down. 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tam! 
But three short years will soon wheel 
roun’, 

And then comes ane and twenty, 
Tam. 

An O for ane, etc. 


A gleib o’ Ian’, a claut o’ gear. 

Was left me by my auntie, Tam; 
At kith or kin I need ua spier. 

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An O for ane, etc. 

They’ll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho’ I mysel’ hae plenty, Tam; 
But hear’st thou, laddie, there’s my 
loof, 

I’m thine at ane and twenty, Tam I 
An O for ane, etc. 

THE BONNIE WEE THING.i 

Tune— •“ The Lads of Saltcoats." 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine.. 
I wad wear thee in my bosom. 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 


* “ Charming lovely Davies ” is the heroine of this song. 





COUNTRY LASSIE. 


273 


Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o’ thine; 

And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish, 
ijest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 
In ae constellation shine; 

To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine I 
Bonnie wee, etc. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune —“ Robie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the 
sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 
Where Cummins ance had high 
command; 

When shall I see that honor’d land. 
That winding stream I love so 
dear! 

Must wayward fortune’s adverse 
hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 
Where spreading hawthorns gaily 
bloom; 

How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 
Where lambkins wanton t&o’ the 
broom! 

Tho’ wandering, now, must be my 
doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and 
braes. 

May there my latest hours consume, 
Amang the friends of early days! 

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN 
WHEEL. 

Tune— “ Bottom of the Punch Bowl." 

O LEEZE me on my spinnin wheel, 

O leeze me on my rock and reel; 

Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e’en ! 
I’ll set me down and sing and spin. 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi’ content, and milk and 
meal— 

O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 


On ilka hand the burnies trot. 

And meet below my theekit cot; 

The scented birk and hawthorn 
white. 

Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie’s nest. 

And little fishes’ caller rest: 

The sun blinks kindly in the bid’. 
Where blithe I turn my spinnin 
wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail. 

And echo cons the doolfu’ tale: 

The lintwhites in the hazel braes. 
Delighted, rival ither’slays; 

The craik amang the claver hay. 

The paitrick whirrin o’er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 

O wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a’ the pride of a’ the great 'i 
Amid their flarin, idle toys. 

Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinnin wheel 't 


COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune— “ John, c me kiss me noio. ” 

In simmer when the hay was mawn. 
And corn wav’d green in ilka field. 
While clover blooms white o’er the 
lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bidd; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 
Says, “ I’ll be wed, come o’t what 
will; ” 

Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

“ O’ guid advisement comes nae ill. 

“ It’s ye hae wooers monie ane. 

And, lassie, ye’re but young ye 
ken; 

Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 
A routine butt, a routhie ben: 
There’s Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
Fu’ is his barn, fu’ is his byre; 

Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

Its plenty beets the luver’s fire.” 






274 


THE POSIE. 


“ For Johnnie o’ the Buskie-glen 
I dinna care a single tiie; 

He lo’es sae weel his craps and kye, 
He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe’s the blink o’ Robie’s ee, 
And weel I wat he loe’s me dear; 
Ae blink o’ him I wad nae gie 
For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.” 

“ O thoughtless lassie, life’s a faught! 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair; 
But aye fu’ han’t is fechtin best, 

A hungry care’s an unco care; 

But some will spend, and some will 
spare, 

An’ wilfu’ folk maun hae their will; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 
Keep mind that ye maun drink the 
yill.” 

“ O, gear will buy me rigs o’ land. 
And gear will buy me sheep an kye; 
But the tender heart o’ leesome luve 
The gowd and siller canna buy; 
We may be poor—Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve brings peace and 
joy. 

What mair hae queens upon a 
throne ‘i ” 

FAIR ELIZA. I 

Tune—“ The bonnie brucket Lassie." 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part. 

Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu’ heart? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies. 

For pity hide the cruel sentence 
Under friendship’s kind disguise! 


Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 
The offense is loving thee; 

Canst thou wreck his peace forever, 
Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 

While the life beats in my bosom, 
Thou Shalt mix in ilka throe: 

Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 

In the pride o’ sinny noon; 

Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon; 

Not the poet in the moment 
Fancy lightens in his ee, 

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 
That thy presence gies to me. 


SHE’S FAIR AND FALSE. 

She’s fair and fause that causes my 
smart, 

I lo’ed her meikle and lang; 

She’s broken her vow, she’s broken 
my heart. 

And I may e’en gae hang. 

A coof cam in wi’ rowth o’ gear. 

And I hae tint my dearest dear. 

But woman is but warld’s gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae’er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 

Nae ferlie ’tis tho’ fickle she prove, 
A woman has’t by kind: 

O Woman lovely. Woman fair! 

An Angel form’s faun to thy share, 
’Twad been o’er meikle to gien thee 
mair, 

I mean an Angel mind. 


THE POSIE.2 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; 

But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green 
And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May. 


I original MS. the name of the heroine of this song was Rabina. 

4 .U noticed that this song is not distinguished by botanical correctness 

the Paste Burns has gathered the flowers of spring, summer, and aiitumn 


Into 




THE BANKS O’ BOON. 


275 


The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year. 

And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear, 

For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer; 
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 

For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie mou; 

The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue, 

And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 

And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; 

The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air. 

And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller gray. 

Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day. 

But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away; 
And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near, 

And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear: 

The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear. 

And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve. 

And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, 

That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remuve, 
And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 


THE BANKS O’ BOON.’ 

Tune— “ The Caledonian Hunt's delight."' 

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Boon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and 
fair! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae weary fu’ o’ care! 

Thou’lt break my heart, thou war¬ 
bling bird. 

That wantons thro’ the flowering 
thorn: 

Thou minds me o’ departed joys, 
Bcparted—never to return. 

Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie 
bird, 

That sings beside thy mate, 


For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist na o’ my fate. 

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Boon, 

To see the rose and woodbine 
twine; 

And ilka bird sang o’ its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o’ mine. 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 
Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; 

And my fause luver stole my rose. 
But ah! he left the thorn wi’ 
me. 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose 
Upon a morn in June ; 

And sae I flourish’d on the mom, 
And sae was pu’d on noon. 


* This song appeared with Burns’s name attached in Johnson’s “Museum.” The sim¬ 
ple and finer version which follows was sent to Mr. Ballantine in 1787. “ While here I 
sit,” Burns writes, “ sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little country inn, and 
drying my wet clothes.” 





276 


BEHOLD THE HOUR. 


VERSION PRINTED IN THE 
MUSICAL MUSEUM. 

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ? 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu’ o’ care. 

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie 
bird. 

That sings upon the bough ; 

Thou minds me o’ the happy 
days. 

When my fause luve was true. 


Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie 
bird. 

That sings beside thy mate; 

For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And wist na o’ my fate. 

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine. 

And ilka a bird sang o’ his love, 

And sae did I o’ mine. 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose 
Frae off its thorny tree; 

And my fause luver staw the rose 
But left the thorn wi’ me. 


GLOOMY DECEMBER.! 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 
Ance mair I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; 

Sad was the parting thou makes me remember. 
Parting wi’ Nancy, oh ! ne’er to meet mair. 

Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 

But the dire feeling, O farewell forever. 

Is anguish unmingl’d and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

Till the last leaf o’ the summer is flown. 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ; 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care; 

For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 
Parting wi’ Nancy, oh! ne’er to meet mair. 


BEHOLD THE HOUR .2 
Tune— “ Oran Qaoil. 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive! 

Thou goest, thou darling of my 
heart: 

Sever’d from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will’d, and we must 
part! 

I’ll often greet this surging swell; 

Yon distant isle will often hail: 

“ E’en here I took the last farewell; 

There latest mark’d her vanish'd 
sail.” 


Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowls round me 
cry. 

Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I’ll westward turn my wistful 
eye. 

“Happy, thou Indian grove,” I’ll 
say, 

“Where now my Nancy’s path 
may be! 

While thro’ thy sweets she loves to 
stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on 
me?” 


1 This song was addressed to Clarinda. 

2 Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, September, 1793 “ The following song I have com 

posed for Oy'an Gaoil. the Highland air that you tell me in your last you have resolved 
to give a place to in your book. 1 have this moment finished the song ; so you have it 
glowing from the mint. If it suits you, well I if not, ’tis also well I ” 






AFTON WATER. 


277 


WILLIE’S WIFE. 

Tune— “ Tibbie Fowler in the Olen." 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca’d it Linkumdod- 
die, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou’d stown a clue wi’ onie 
bodie; 

He had a wife wos dour and din, 

O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 


She has an ee, she has but ane. 

The cat has twa the very color: 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a 
miller, 

A whiskin beard about her mou, 


Her nose and chin they threaten 
ither; 

Sic a wife, etc. 

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein 
shinn’d. 

Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left. 
To balance fair in ilka quarter: 
She has a hump upon her breast. 
The twin o’ that upon her shouther; 
Sic a wife, etc. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits. 

An’ wi her loof her face a-washin; 
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi’ a 
hushion. 

Her walie nieves like midden-creels. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water 
Sic a Avife as Wille had, 

I wad na gie a button for her. 


AFTON WATER.* 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 

Flow gently. I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise; 

My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen. 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 

1 charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. 

Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills; 

There daily I wander as noon rises high. 

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 

Where wild in the Avoodlands the primroses blow; 

There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea. 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 

■ And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 

As gathering sweet flow’ret she stems thy clear wave. 

A According to Dr. Currie this song was composed in honor of Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 
Gilbert Burns thought the verses referred to Highland Mary. Afton is an Ayrshire 
stream, and flows into the Nith, near New Cumnock. 




2/8 


THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 


Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. 

Flow gently, sweet Alton, disturb not her dream. 


LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY 
THEE ? 

Tune— “ My Mother's aye glowring o'er 
me." 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 

Dyvour, beggar loons to me, 

I reign in Jeanie’s bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law. 

And in her breast enthrone me: 
Kings and nations, swith awa ! 

Reif randies, I disown ye! 

BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoic' 

ing, 

And surly winter grimly flies: 
Now crystal clear are the falling 
waters. 

And bonnie blue are the sunny 
skies; 

Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth 
the morning. 

The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun’s return¬ 
ing, 

And 1 rejoice in my bonnie Beil. 

The flowery spring leads sunny sum¬ 
mer, 

And yellow autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy 
winter. 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advanc¬ 
ing, [tell. 

Old Time and Nature their changes 
But never ranging, still unchanging 
I adore my bonnie Bell. 

FOR THE SAKE OF 
SOMEBODY. 

Tune— “ The Highland Watch's farewell." 
My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 


1 could wake a winter night. 

For the sake o’ somebody ! 

Oh-hon! for somebody! 

Oh-hey ! for uomebody 1 
I could range the world around. 

For the sake o’ somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous 
love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 

And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon! for somebody! 
Oh-hey! for somebody! 

I wad do—what wad I not ? 

For the sake o’ somebody! 

O MAY, THY MORN.' 

0 May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o’ December; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine. 
And private was the chamber; 
And dear was she I dare na name. 
But I will aye remember. 

And dear, etc. 

And here’s to them, that, like oursel. 
Can push about the jorum. 

And here’s to them that wish us 
weel. 

May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them; 
And here’s to them we dare na tell. 
The dearest o’ the quorum. 

And here’s to, etc. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF 
INVERNESS.^ 

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she 
see; 

For e’en and morn she cries, alas! 

And aye the saut tear blins heree; 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu’ day it was to me; 

For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 


* Clarinda is supposed to be the subject of this song. 

* The first four lines of this song are old. 




A VISION. 


2/9 


Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 
Their graves are growing green to 
see; 

And by them lies the dearest lad 
That ever blest a woman’s ee! 

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be; 

For monie a heart thou hast made 
sair. 

That ne’er did wrang to thine or 
thee. 

A RED, RED ROSE.' 

Tune— “ Wishaw's favorite.'' 

O, MY luve’s like a red, red rose, 
That’s newly sprung in June: 

O, my luve’s like the melodic 
That’s sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I; 

And I will luve thee still, my dear. 
Till a’ the seas gang dry. 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve. 
And fare thee weel awhile! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. 

O, WAT YE WHA’S IN YON 

TOWN? 2 

Tune —“ The bonnie Lass in yon town." 
O, WAT ye wha’s in yon town. 

Ye see the e’enin sun upon ? 

The fairest dame’s in yon town, 
That e’enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green 
shaw. 

She wanders by yon spreading 
tree; 

How blest, ye flow’rs that round her 
blaw. 

Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e! 

• The foundation of this song was a short 
ditty, written, it is said, by one Lieutenant 
Hinches, as a farewell to his sweetheart. 

* This song was composed in honor o^ 
Mrs. Oswald, of Auchincruive. 


How blest, ye birds that round her 
sing, 

And welcome in the blooming 
year. 

And doubly welcome be the spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear I 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; 
But my delight in yon town. 

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a the charms 
O’ Paradise could yield me joy; 
But gie me Lucy in my arms. 

And welcome Lapland’s dreary 
sky. 

My cave wad be a lover’s bower, 
Tho’ raging winter rent the air; 
And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun’s gane down upon; 
A fairer than’s in yon town. 

His setting beam ne’er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am doom’d to bear; 
I careless quit all else below. 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life’s dearest blood is 
warm, 

Ae thought frae her shall ne'er de¬ 
part, 

And she--as fairest is her form. 

She has the truest, kindest heart, 

A VISION. 

Tune —“ Cumnock Psalms." 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 
Where the wa’ flower scents the 
dewy air. 

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 
bower. 

And tells the midnight moon her 
care. 

CHORUS. 

A lassie all alone was making her 
moan. 

Lamenting our lads beyond the sea; 





28 o 


THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 


In the bluidy wars they fa’, and our 
honor’s gane an’ a’, 

And broken-hearted we maun die. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant-echoing glens 
reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s. 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roarings swell and 
fa’s. 

The cauld blue north was streaming 
forth 

Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din ; 
Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune’s favors, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn’d mine 
eyes, 

‘ And, by the moonbeam, shook to 
see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir’d as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o’ stane. 

His darin look had daunted me: 
And on his bonnet grav’d was plain 
The sacred posy—Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 
Might rous’d the slumbering dead 
to hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe, 

As ever met a Briton’s ear! 

He sang wi’ joy his former day. 

He weeping wail’d his latter times; 
But what he said it was nae play, 

I winna venture’t in ray rhymes. 

O, WERT THOU IN THE 
CAULD BLAST. 

Tune —“ The Lass of Livingstone,"" 

O, WERT thou in the cauld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 

My plaidie to the angry airt. 

I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee. 


Or did misfortune’s bitter storms 
Around thee blaw, around thee 
blaw. 

Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a’, to share it a’. 

Or were I in the wildest waste. 

Of earth and air, of earth and air. 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert 
there. 

Or were I monarch o’ the globe, 

Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign. 
The only jewel in my crown 
Wad be my queen, wad be my 
queen. 

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. i 

Tune— “ The deuks dang o''er my daddy" 

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my Muse’s care; 

Their titles a’ are empty show; 

Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

CHORUS. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 

I set me down wi’ right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen, etc. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I’ll love my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, etc. 

Altho’ thro’ foreign climes I range, 

I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honor’s 
glow. 

My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, etc. 

^ This song is supposed to connect itself 
with the attachment to Highland Mary 
and the idea of emigration to the West 
Indies. 




THO’ CRUEL FATE. 


28 l 


For her I’ll dare the billow’s roar, 
F'or her I’ll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may luster throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, etc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honor’s band! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me 
low, 

I’m thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Fareweel the glen sae bushy, O! 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O. 
To other lands I now must go. 

To sing my Highland lassie, O! 

JOCKEY’S TA’EN THE PART¬ 
ING KISS. 

Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss, 

O’er the mountains he is gane; 
And with him is a’ my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw. 
Flashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw. 
Drifting o’er the frozen plain! 

When the shades of evening creep 
O’er the day’s fair, gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep. 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he’ll repeat her name; 

For where’er he distant roves. 
Jockey’s heart is still at hame. 

PEGGY’S CHARMS.i 

My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form. 
The frost of hermit age might warm; 
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s 
mind. 

Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy’s angel air. 

Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 

• Written in celebration of the personal 
and mental attractions of Miss Chalmers. 


Her native grace so void of art; 

But I adore my Peggy’s heart. 

The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye. 

The kindling luster of an eye; 

Who but owns their magic sway. 
Who but knows they all decay! 

The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look that rage disarms. 
These are all immortal charms. 

UP IN THE MORNING 
EARLY. 

CHORDS. > 

Up in the morning’s no for me, 

Up in the morning early; 

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ 
snaw, 

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to 
west. 

The drift is driving sairly; 

Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast. 
I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A’ day they fare but sparely; 

And lang’s the night frae e’en to 
morn, 

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Up in the morning, etc. 


THO’ CRUEL FATE. 

Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part. 
As far’s the pole and line; 

Her dear idea round my heart 
Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho’ mountains frown and deserts 
howl, 

And oceans roar between; 

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 
I still would love my Jean.'-' 


1 The chorus of the song is old. 

=' Jean Armour is the Jean referred to. 





282 


MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 


1 DREAM’D I LAY WHERE 
FLOWERS WERE 
SPRINGING.* 

I bream’d I lay where flowers were 
springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam; 

List’ning to the wild birds singing, 
By a falling, crystal stream. 

Straight the sky grew black and 
daring; 

Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds 
rave; 

Trees with aged arms were warring, 
O’er the swelling drumlie wave. 

Such was my life’s deceitful morn¬ 
ing, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy’d; 

But lang or noon, loud tempests 
storming 

A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d. 

Tho’ fickle fortune has deceiv’d me. 
She promis’d fair, and perform’d 
but ill. 

Of monie a joy and hope bereav’d 
me, 

I bear a heart shall support me 
still. 

BONNIE ANN.2 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 
Beware o’ bonnie Ann; 

Her comely face sae fu’ o’ grace. 
Your heart she will trepan. 

Her een sae bright, like stars by 
night, 


Her skin is like the swan; 

Sae jimpy lac’d her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Y'outh, grace, and love, attendant 
move. 

And pleasure leads the van; 

In a’ their charms, and conquering 
arms. 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 

The captive bands may chain tlie 
hands. 

But love enslaves the man; 

Ye gallants braw, I red you a’ 

Beware o’ bonnie Ann. 


MY BONNIE MARY. 

Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine. 

An’ fill it in a silver tassie; 

That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie. 

The boat roeks at the pier o’ Leith; 
Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the 
ferry, 

The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fl^. 
The glittering spears are ranked 
ready; 

The shouts o’ war are heard afar. 
The battle closes thick and bloody; 

But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore 
Wad mak melanger wish to tarry; 

Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar, 
It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 


MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS.® 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 

^ Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 

The birth place of valor, the country of worth; 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 

The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 

J This is one of Burns earliest productions. 

* “ I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of 
my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air, Strathallan's Lament."— 

* The first stanza of this song is taken from a stall ditty, entitled The Strong Walls 
of Derry. 





I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 


283 


Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go. 


THERE’S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.‘ 

Tune— “ Neil Oow's lament." 

There’s a youth in this city, it were a great pity, 
That he from our lasses should wander awa; 

For he’s bonnie and braw, weel-favor’d witha’, 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a’. 

His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; 

His fecket as white as the new-driven snaw; 

His hos3 they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a’. 
His coat is the hue, etc. 


For beauty and fortune the laddie’s been courtin; 

Weel-featur’d, weel-tocher’d, weel-mounted and braw; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her. 

The pennie’s the jewel that beautifies a’. 

There’s Meg wi’ the mailin, that fain wad a haen him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o’ the ha‘; 

There’s lang-tocher’d Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

—But the laddie’s dear sel he lo’es dearest of a’ 


THE RANTIN DOG THE 
DADDIE O’T. 

Tune— “ East Nook o* Fife." 

O WHA my babie-clouts will buy ? 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 

I Wha will kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o’t. 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin maut ? 
Wha will tell me how to ca’t ? 

The rantin dog the daddie o’t. 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there ? 

Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair. 

The rantin dog the daddie o’t. 


Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain ? 

Wha will kiss me o’er again ? 

The rantin dog the daddie o’t. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART 
SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o’er the lugs in luve; 
Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart 
could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o’ thy 
sweets. 

Thy favors are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 


» Concerning this song Burns writes “ This air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it 
a lament for his brother. The first half stanza of the song is old ; the rest is mine.” 

2 “ This song,” Burns writes, “ is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private 
secretary to Mary and Anne, Queens of Scotland. . , I think I have improved the 

simplicity of the sentiments by giving them a Scots dress.” 1 o -r -lur 








284 


WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. 


See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 
How soon it tines its scent and hue 
When pu’d and worn a common 
toy 1 


Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho’ thou may gaily bloom a 
while; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like onie common weed and vile. 


YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde, 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed; 
Where the grouse, etc. 

Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores, 

To me hae the charms o’ yon wild mossy moors; 

For there, by a lanely, sequester’d clear stream, 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. 

Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath; 

For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove, 

While o’er us unheeded fly the swift hours o’ love. 

She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair; 

O’ nice education but sma’ is her share; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be. 

But I lo’e the dear lassie because she lo’es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 

In her armor of glances, and blushes, and sighs ? 

And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts, 

They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, 

Has luster outshining the diamond to me, 

And the heart-beating love, as I’m clasp’d in her arms, 

O, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms ! 


WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER 
DOOR? 

WiiA is that at my bower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay; 

Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be 
here! 

Indeed maun I, quo’ Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief ? 

O come and see, quo’ Findlay; 
Before the morn ye’ll work mischief, 
Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. 


Gif I rise and let you in; 

Let me in, quo’ Findlay; 

Ye’ll keep me waukiu wi’ yout 
din; 

Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. 

In my bower if ye should stay, 

Let me stay, quo’ Findlay; 

I fear ye’ll bide till break o’ day, 
Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain; 

I’ll remain, quo’ Findlay, 





THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S FAR AWAY. 


285 


I dread ye’ll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. 

What may pass within this bower— 
Let it pass, quo’ Findlay; 

Ye maun conceal till your last hour; 
Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. 

FAREWELL TO NANCY.a 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 

Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge 
thee. 

Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage 
thee. 

Who shall say that fortune grieves 
him 

While the star of hope she leaves 
him ? 

Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me, 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her, was to love her; 

Love but her, and love forever. 

Had we never lov’d sae kindly. 

Had we never lov’d sae blindly, 
Never met—or never parted, ' 

We had ne’er been broken hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dear¬ 
est! 

Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleas¬ 
ure. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 

Ae farewell, alas, forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge 
thee. 

Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage 
thee. 

THE BONNIE BLINK O’ 
MARY’S EE. 

Now bank an’ brae are claith’d in 
green. 

An’ scatter’d cowslips sweetly 
spring, 

‘ These verses were inspired by Clariuda 
—the most beautiful and passionate strain 
to which that strange attachment gave 
birth. 


By Oirvan’s fairy haunted stream 
The birdies fiit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis’ banks when e’ening fa’s. 
There wi’ my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance o’ love. 
The bonuie blink o’ Mary’s ee! 

The chield wha boasts o’ warld’s 
wealth, 

Is aften laird o’ meikle care; 

But Mary, she is a’ my ain. 

Ah, fortune canua gie me mair! 
Then let me range by Cassillis’ banks 
Wi’ her the lassie dear to me, 

And catch, her ilka glanco o’ love. 
The bonnie blink o’ Mary’s ee! 

OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Out over the Forth I look to the 
north. 

But what is the north and its High¬ 
lands to me '( 

The south nor the east gie ease to my 
breast. 

The far foreign land, or the wild 
rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae 
to rest. 

That happy my dreams and my 
slumbers may be; 

For far in the west lives he I lo’e 
best. 

The lad that is dear to my babie 
and me. 

THE BONNIE LAD THAT’S 
FAR AWAY. 

Tune— “ Owre the hills and far away.'" 

O HOW can I be blithe and glad. 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw. 
When the bonnie lad that 1 lo’e best 
Is o’er the hills and far awa ? 

It’s no the frosty winter wind. 

It’s no the driving drift and snaw; 
But aye the tear comes in my ee. 

To think on him that’s far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they hae disown’d me 
a’: 









286 


BANKS OF DEVON. 


But I hae ane will tak my part, 

The bonnie lad that’s far awa. 

A pair o’ gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me twa; 

And I will wear them for his sake. 

The bonnie lad that’s far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will deed the birken- 
shaw. 

And my sweet babie will be born, 

And he’ll come hame that’s far awa. 

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF 
ANNA.* 

Tune —“ Banks of Banna." 

Y ESTREEN I had a pint o’ wine, 

A place where body saw na’; 

Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine 
The gowden locks of Anna. 

The hungry Jew in wilderness 
Rejoicing o’er his manna. 

Was naething to my hinny bliss 
Upon the lips of Anna. 

BANKS OF DEVON.2 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair! 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud rose; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 

‘ Allan Cunningham states that Burns considered this to be the finest love-song ne 
had ever composed—an opinion in which few readers will concur. 

2 “These verses,” says Burns, ” were composed on a charming girl. Miss Charlotte 
Hamilton, who is now married to James Mackittrick Adair, physician. She is sister to 
my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the 
Ayr.” 


Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 
Frae Indus to Savannah 1 

Gie me within my straining grasp 
The melting form of Anna. 

There I’ll despise imperial charms. 
An Empress or Sultana, 

While dying raptures in her arms, 

I give and take with Anna 1 

Awa, thou flaunting god o’ day ! 
Awa, thou pale Diana! 

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 
When I’m to meet my Anna. 

Come, in thy raven plumage, night. 
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a’; 

And bring an angel pen to write 
My transports wi’ my Anna ! 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The kirk and state may join, and tell 
To do such things I mauna: 

The kirk and state may gae to hell. 
And I'll gae to my Anna. 

She is the sunshine o’ my ee. 

To live but her I canna; 

Had I on earth but wishes three. 

The first should be my Anna. 





THE DE’IL’S AWA WI’ THE EXCISEMAN. 


287 


ADOWN WINDING NITH. 

Tune— “ The muckin o' Geordie's byre." 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they 
spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi’ your belles and your beau¬ 
ties, 

They never wi’ her can compare; 
Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis, 
Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair. 

The daisy amus’d my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild; 
Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis, 
For she is Simplicity’s child. 

Awa, etc. 

The rose-bud’s the blush o’ my 
charmer, 

Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis 
prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, etc. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbor. 
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie. 
Her breath is the breath o’ the wood¬ 
bine. 

Its dew-drop o’ diamond, her eye. 
Awa, etc. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 
That wakes through the green 
spreading grove 

When Phcebus peeps over the mount¬ 
ains. 

On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, etc. 


But beauty how frail and how fleet- 

I The bloom of a fine summer’s day! 
^ While worth in the mind o’ my 
I Phillis 

I Will flourish without a decay, 

[ Awa, etc. 


STREAMS THAT GLIDE. * 
Tune—“J l/oj-afif. ” 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter’s chains I 
Glowing here on golden sands. 

There commix’d with foulest stains 
From tyranny’s empurpled bands 
These, their richly-gleaming waves 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly 
laves 

The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 

Shading from tl.o burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 

Or the ruthless native’s way. 

Bent on fiaughter, blood, and spoil.- 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 

I leave the tyrant and the slave. 

Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 

Nature reigns and rules the whole; 
In that sober pensive mood. 

Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the 
floods; 

Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave, 

And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods 
wave. 

By bonnie Castle Gordon. 

THE DETL’S AWA’ WI’ THE 
EXCISEMAN. 

The De’il cam fiddling thro’ the 
town. 

And danc’d awa wi’ the Excise¬ 
man ; 

And ilka wifecry’d “ Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o’ your prize, 
man. 

“We’ll mak our maut, and brew 
our drink. 

We’ll dance, and sing, and re¬ 
joice, man; 

^ This song was written soon after Bunis’ 
visit to Gordon Castle in 1787. 








288 


COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 


And monie thanks to the muckle 
black De’il 

That danc’d awa wi’ the Excise¬ 
man. 

“ There’s threesome reels, and four¬ 
some reels, 

There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, 
man; 

But the ae best dance e’er cam to our 
Ian’, 

Was—the De’il’s awa wi’ the Ex¬ 
ciseman. 

We’ll mak our maut,” etc. 

BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON 
YON HILL.' 

Liggeram cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me; 

Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o’er me; 

Now nae langer sport and play, 
Mirth or sang can please me; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring: 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 
Sighing, dumb, despairing: 

If she winna ease the thraws 
In my bosom swelling. 

Underneath the grass-green sod 
Soon maun be my dwelling. 

O WERE MY LOVE YON 
LILAC FAIR.2 

Tune— “ Hughie Graham." 

O WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring; 


And I, a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my little wing; 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude! 
But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
When youthfu’ May its bloom re¬ 
new’d. 

O gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa’, 
And I mysel’ a drap o’ dew. 

Into her bonnie breast to fa’ I 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night; 
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to 
rest, 

Till fiey’d awa’ by Phoebus’ light. 


COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.^ 
Tune— “ Cauld kail." 

Come, let me take thee to m}^ breast, 
And pledge we ne’er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 
The warld’s wealth and grandeur; 
And do I hear my Jeanie owm 
That equal transports move her ? 

I ask for dearest life alone 
That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi’ all thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure; 
ril seek nae mair o’ heaven to 
share. 

Then sic a moment’s pleasure: 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I’m thine forever! 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 


’ Tn September, 1793, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson “ Blithe hae 1 been o''er the hill 
is one of the finest songs ever I made in my life ; and, besides, is composed on a young 
lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world.” The young lady was 
Miss Leslie Baillie. 

* The first and second stanzas of this song are by Burns ; the third and fourth are 
old. 

3 In August, 1793, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson r—“That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a 
favorite of yours, that 1 once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the 
Muses : when the Muse that presides o’er the banks of Nith, or rather my old inspiring 
dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following.” 




O SAW YE MY DEAR. 


289 


WHERE ARE THE JOYS.‘ 

Tune— “ Saiv ye my Father T ” 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc’d to the lark’s early sang ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring, 
At evening the wild woods amang ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 

And marking sweet flow’rets so fair: 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer’s forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 

No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 
Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 

Yet long, long too well have I known; 

All that has caus’d this wreck in my bosom. 

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow; 

Come, then, enamor’d and fond of my anguish. 
Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe. 


O SAW YE MY DEAR.2 

'fUNE—“ When she cam ben she babbit.' 
O SAW ye my dear, my Phely ? 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 

She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’ a 
new love. 

She winna come liarne to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my 
Phely ? 

What says she, my dearest, my 
Phely ? 


She lets thee to wit that she has thee 
forgot. 

And forever disowns thee her 
Willy. 

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely ! 

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely ! 

As light as the air, and fause as 
thou’s fair, 

Thou’st broken the heart o' thy 
Willy. 


^ Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, September, 1793 “ I have finished my song to Saw ye 

my Father f and in English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for 
the expression of the air is true; but allow me to say that the mere dividing of a 
dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter : however, in that I 
have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. The old verses have merit, though 
unequal, and are popular. My advice is to set the air to the old words, and let mine 
follow as English verses. Here they are.” 

® On the 19th of October, 1794, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson “To descend to busi¬ 
ness ; if you like my idea of \^en she cam ben, she babbit, the following stanzas of 
mine, altered a little from what they were formerly when set to another air, may per¬ 
haps do instead of worse stanzas.” 








290 


MY CIILORIS, 


THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, 
JAMIE. A 

Tune —“ Fee him, father.'" 

Thou has left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left nie ever; 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 

Afteu hast thou vow’d that death 
Only should us sever; 

Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— 

1 maun see thee never, Jamie, 

I’ll see thee never ! 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken; 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 

Thou canst love anither jo. 

While my heart is breaking; 

Soon my weary een I’ll close— 
Never mair to waken, Jamie, 

Ne’er mair to waken! 

MY CHLORIS. 

Tune— “ My lodging is on the cold ground." 

My Chloris, mark how green the 
groves, 

The primrose banks how fair: 

The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav’rock shuns the palace gay. 
And o’er the cottage sings: 

For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 
To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string 
In lordly lighted ha’: 

The shepherd stops his simple reed. 
Blithe, in the birken shaw, 

1 In September, 1793, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson “ Fee him, Father. 1 enclose 
you Fraser’s set oE this tune when he 
plays it slow ; in fact he makes it the 
language of despair. I shall here give you 
two stanzas in that style, merely to try if 
it will be any improvement. Were it pos¬ 
sible in singing to give it half the pathos 
which Fraser gives it in playing, it would 
make an admirable pathetic song. 1 do 
not give these verses for any merit they 
have. I composed them at the time in 
which ’ Patie Allan’s mlther died—that 
was, about the back of midnight, and 
by the lee-side of a bowl of punch which 
had overset every mortal in company ex 
cept the hautbois and the Muse.” 


The princely revel may survey 
Our rustic dance wi’ scorn; 

But are their hearts as light as ours 
Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shepherd’s phrase will woo: 
The courtier tells a finer tale. 

But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, 
to deck 

That spotless breast o’ thine: 

The courtier’s gems may witness 
love— 

But ’tis na love like mine. 
CHARMING MONTH OF MAY.i 

Tune—“D ainfy Davie." 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and 

gay. 

One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe; 

From peaceful slumber she arose. 
Girt on her mantle and her hose. 

And o’er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather’d people you might see 
Perch’d all around on every tree, 

In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rival’d by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, etc. 

^ In November, 1794, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson You may think meanly of 
this, but take a look at the bombast origi¬ 
nal. and you will be surprised that 1 have 
made so much of it.” 





JOHN BARLEYCORN. 


291 


LET NOT WOMAN E’ER 
COMPLAIN. 

Tune—“ Z>w7ica?i Gray." 

Let not woman e’er complain 
Of inconstancy in love, 

Let not woman e’er complain, 
Fickle man is apt to rove: 

Look abroad through Nature’s range, 
Nature’s mighty law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean’s ebb, and ocean’s flow; 

Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man. 

To oppose great Nature’s plan ? 
We’ll be constant while we can— 
You can be no more, you know. 

O PHILLY, 

Tune—“ The sow's tail." 

HE. 

O Philly, happy be that day 
When, roving thro' the gather’d hay. 
My youthfu’ heart was stown away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

O Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own’d my maiden love. 
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers 
above 

To be my ain dear Willy. 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 

So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 


HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy. 
Were ne’er sae welcome to my^ye 
As is the sight o’ Philly. 

SHE. 

The little swallow’s wanton wing, 
Tho’ wafting o’er the fiowery spring, 
Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o’ my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that thro’ the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower. 
Compar’d wi’ my delight is poor. 
Upon the lips o’ Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss 0’ Willy. 

HE. 

Let fortune’s wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves 
may win! 

My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane, 
And that’s my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What’s a’ the joys that gowd can 
gie! 

I care na wealth a single flie; 

The lad I love’s the lad for me, 

Amd that’s my ain dear Willy. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN.* 

A BALLAD. 

There was three Kings into the east. 
Three Kings both great and high, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

4 

’ This is partly composed on the plan of 
an old sons; known by the same name. R. 
B, The ballad appeared in the first Edin- 
^ burgh edition. 








292 


CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. 


They took a plough and plough’d 
him down, 

Put clods upon his head, 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerfu’ Spring came kindly 
on. 

And show’rs began to fall; 

John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surpris’d them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong. 

His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed 
spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober Autumn enter’d mild. 
When he grew wan and pale; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show’d h^e began to fail. 

His color sicken’d more and more, 
He faded into age; 

And then his enemies began 
To show their deadly rage. 

They’ve ta’en a weapon, long and 
sharp. 

And cut him by the knee; 

Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgel’d him full sore; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And turn’d him o’er and o’er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim. 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe. 

And still, as signs of life appear’d. 
They toss’d him to and fro. 

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, 
*The marrow of his bones; 

But a miller us’d him worst of all. 
For he crush’d him between two 
stones. 


And they hae ta’en his very heart’s 
blood. 

And drank it round and round; 
And still the more and more they 
drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise. 

For if you do but taste his blood, 
’Twill make your courage rise; 

’Twill make a man forget his woe; 

’Twill heighten all his joy; 

’Twill make the widow’s heart to 
sing, 

Tho’ the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne’er fail in old Scotland 1 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME 
THUS?i 

Tune—“ jRot/’s WifeJ" 

Canst thou leave me thus, my 
Katy? 

Canst thou leave me thus, my 
Katy? 

Well thou know’st my aching 
heart, 

And canst thou leave me thus for 
pity? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful swain’s reward— 
An aching, broken heart, my 
Katy ? 

Canst thou, etc. 

Farewell! and ne’er such sorrow tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my 
Katy! 

Thou may’st find those will love 
thee dear— 

But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, etc. 

’ On the 19th November, 1794, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson:—“ Well ! I think 
this, to be done in two or three turns 
across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far 
amiss.” 




WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD, 


293 


ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune—“ Aye waukin o,” 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 
While my soul’s delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can 1 cease to care. 

Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of anguish 
Long, etc. 

Every hope is fled. 

Every fear is terror; 

Slumber e’en I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 

Long, etc. 

Hear me, Pow^’rs divine! 

Oh, in pity hear me! 

Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare mel 
Long, etc. 

WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR 
PILOT STOOD. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Tune.—“ Gillicrankie" 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood, 
An’ did our hellim thraw, man, 

Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 
Within America, man -. 

Then up they gat the maskin-pat. 
And in the sea did jaw, man; 

An' did na less, in full Congress, 
Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery 
takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 

Down Lowrie’s burn he took a turn, 
And Carleton did ca’, man. 

But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 
Montgomery like did fa’, man, 

Wi’ swmrd in hand, before his band, 
Amang his en’mies a’, man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 
Was kept at Boston ha’, man ; 

Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe 
For Philadelphia, man- 


Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin 
Guid Christian bluid to draw, 
man, 

But at New York, wi’ knife and 
fork. 

Sir Loin he hacked sma’, man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ 
whip. 

Till Fraser brave did fa’, man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 

Cornwallis fought as lang’s he 
dought. 

An’ did the Buckskins claw, man; 
But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save. 
Pie hung it to the wa’, man. 

Then Montague, an’ Guilford too, 
Began to fear a fa’, man; 

And Sackville doure, wha stood the 
stoure. 

The German Chief to thraw, man. 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk. 

Nae mercy had at a’, man, 

An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box. 
An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the 
game; 

Till death did on him ca’, man; 
When Shelburne meek held up his 
cheek. 

Conform to gospel law, man; 

Saint Stephen’s boys wi’ jarring 
noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man. 
For North an’ Fox united stocks. 
And bore him to the wa’, man. 

Then Clubs an’ Hearts were Charlie’s 
cartes. 

He swept the stakes awa’, man. 
Till the Diamond’s Ace, of Indian 
race. 

Led him a ssiir faux pas, man; 

The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads. 

On Chatham's boys did ca’, man; 
An’ Scotland drew her pipe, an’ blew, 
“Up, Willie, waur them a’, man I " 

Behind the throne then Grenville’s 
gone, 

A secret word or twa’, man; 









294 


MY NANNIE, O. 


While slee Dundas arous’d the class 
Be-north the Roman wa’, man; 
An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heavenly 
graith, 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man,) 

Wi’ kindling eyes cry’d, “Willie, 
rise! 

Would 1 hae fear’d them a’, man V ” 

But word an’ blow, North, Fox, and 
Co. 

Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man. 
Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their 
claise 

Behind him in a raw, man; 

An’ Caledon threw by the drone, 

An’ did her whittle draw, man; 
An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ 
blood. 

To make it guid in law, man. 

THE RIGS O’ BARLEY. 

Tune—“ Corn rigs are bonnie.'" 

It was upon a Lammas night. 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light, 
I held awa to Annie; 

The time flew by, wi’ tentless heed. 
Till ’tween the late and early, 

Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro’ the barley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was 
still. 

The moon was shining clearly; 

1 set her down, wi’ right good will, 
Amang the rigs o’ barley; 

1 ken’t her heart was a’ my ain; 

I lov’d her most sincerely; 

1 kiss’d her owre and owre again 
Amang the rigs o’ barley. 

1 lock’d her in my fond embrace; 

Her heart was beating rarely; 

My blessings on that happy place, 
Amang the rigs o’ barley ! 

But by the moon and stars so bright. 
That shone that hour so clearly! 
She aye shall bless that happy night 
Amang the rigs o’ barley. 

1 hae been blithe wi’ comrades dear; 
1 hae been merry drinking: 


I hae been joyfu’ gath’riu gear; 

I hae been happy thinking • 

But a’ the pleasures e’er 1 saw, 

Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a’, 
Amang the rigs o’ barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs, an’ barle}^ rigs. 

An’ corn rigs arc bonnie: 

I’ll ne’er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 

FAREWELL TO ELIZA. 

Tune—“ Gilderoy." 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore; 

The cruel fates between us throw 
A boundless ocean’s roar; 

But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 
Between my Love and me. 

They never, never can divide 
My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore! 

A boding voice is in mine ear. 

We part to meet no more! 

But the last throb that leaves my 
heart. 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part. 

And thine that latest sigh 1 

MY NANNIE, O. 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
’Mang moors an’ mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos’d. 
And I’ll awa’ to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an’ 
shill; 

The night’s baith mirk and 
rainy, O; 

But I’ll get my plaid, an’ out I’ll 
steal. 

An’ owre the hill to Nannie, 0. 

My Nannie’s charming, sweet, an’ 
young; 

Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O: 

May ill befa’ the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie, 0. 






NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 


295 


Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as slie’s bonuie, O . 

The op'niug gowau, wat wi’ dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An’ few there be that ken me, O, 
But what care I how few they be, 
I’m welcome aye to Nannie, 0. 

My riches a’s my penny-fee, 

An’ I maun guide it cannie, O, 
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a’, my Nannie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie, O; 
But I’m as blithe that hands his 
pleugh, 

An’ has nas nae care but Nannie, O. 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by. 
I’ll tak what Heav’n will send 
me, O; 

Nae itlier care in life have I, 

But live, an’ love my Nannie, O, 

GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O; 

Green grow the rashes, O; 

The sweetest hours that e’er I spend. 
Are spent amang the lasses, O! 

There’s naught but care on cv’ry 
ban’ 

In ev’ry hour that passes, O; 

What signifies the life o’ man, 

An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, etc. 

The warly race may riches chase. 

An’ riches still may fly them, O; 
An’ tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy 
them, O. 

i Green grow, etc. 

j But gie me a canny hour at e’en, 

1 ! My arms about my dearie, O; 
i An’ warly cares, an’ warl.y men, 

1 May a’ gae tapsalteerie, OI 
j Green grow, etc. 


For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye’re naught but senseless asses,O. 
The wisest man the warl’ saw. 

He dearly lov’d the lasses, O. 
Green grown, etc. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely 
dears 

Her noblest work she classes, O, 
Her prentice han’ she tried on man. 
An’ then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, etc. 


NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 

Tune—“ I had a horse, I had nae mair ” 

Now westlin winds and slaught’ring 
guns 

Bring autumn’s pleasant weather: 
The moorcock springs, on whirring 
wings, 

Amang the blooming heather; 
Now waving grain, wide o’er the 
plain. 

Delights the weary farmer, 

And the moon shines bright, when 
I rove at night 
To muse upon my charmer 

The partridge loves fhe fruitful fells; 

The plover loves the mountains; 
The woodcock loves the lonely dells; 

The soaring hern the fountains 
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves. 
The path of man to shun it, 

The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush. 
The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find, 
The savage and the tender. 

Some social join, and leagues com¬ 
bine, 

Some solitary wander 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway^ 
Tyrannic man’s dominion, 

The sportsman’s joy. the murd’ring 
cry. 

The flutt’ring, gory pinion I 

But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, 
Thick flies the skimming swal* 
low. 








296 


THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 


The sky is blue, the fields in view, 
All fading-greea and yellow, 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 
And view the charms of nature, 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 
And ev’ry happy creature. 

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 
Till the silent moon shine clearly; 


I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly 
prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly; 

Not vernal show’rs to budding 
flow’rs 

Not autumn to the farmer, 

So dear can be, as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer I 


THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 


Tune— “ Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 

No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight. 

No sly man of business contriving a snare, 

For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care. 

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow; 

I scorn at the peasant, ho’ ever so low; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are there, ^ 

And a bottle like this, are my gl »ry and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse; 

There centum perc::ntum, the it with his purse; 

But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 

There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; 

For sweet consolation to church I did fly; 

I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 

That the big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make; 

A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck; 

But the pursy old landlord just waddled up-stairs, 

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

“ Life’s cares they are comforts,” a maxim laid down 
By the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gowili 
And, faith, I agree with th’ old prig to a hair, 

For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care. 

A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o’erflow, 

And honors masonic prepare for to throw; 

May every true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care. 




THE FAREWELL. 


297 


THE AUTHOR’S FAREWELL TO 
HIS NATIVE COUNTRY.! 

Tune—“ RosUn Castle." 

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast, 
Loud roars the loud inconstant blast, 
Y"on murky cloud is foul with rain, 

I see it driving o’er the plain; 

The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander, prest with care. 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip’ning 
corn 

By early winter’s ravage torn; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 

She sees the scowling tempest fly: 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 

I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
F'ar from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, 
’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; 
Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear: 
But round my heart the ties are 
bound. 

That heart transpierc’d with many a 
wound: 

These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila’s hills and 
dales. 

Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy 
roves. 

Pursuing past, unhappy loves! 
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my 
foes! 

My peace with these, my love with 
those— 

» Id the autobiographical sketch for¬ 
warded to Dr. Moore, Burns writes 
“ 1 had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends; my chest was on the road to 
Greenock ; and 1 had composed the last 
song 1 should ever measure in Caledonia— 
The gloomy night is gathering fast: 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a 
friend of mine overthrew all my schemes, 
by opening new prospects to my poetic 
ambition.” The song was printed in the 
first Edinburgh edition. 


The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

THE FAREWELL.' 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES’S LODGE, 
TARBOLTON. 

Tune—“ Gtud night, and joy be wV you a\" 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie! 

Ye favor’d, ye enlighten’d few. 
Companions of my social joy! 

Tho’ 1 to foreign lauds must hie. 
Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’. 
With melting heart, and brimful eye. 
I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa’. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive 
night, 

Oft, honor’d with supreme com¬ 
mand. 

Presided o’er the sons of light: 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 
Which none but craftsmen ever 
saw! 

Strong mem’ry on my heart shall 
write 

Those happy scenes when far awa’. 

May freedom, harmony, and love. 
Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th’ Omniscient eye above. 
The glorious Architect Divine 1 
That you may keep th’ unerring 
line, 

Still rising by the plummet’s law, 
Till C rder bright, completely shine. 
Shall be my pray’r when far awa’. 

And You, farewell! whose merits 
claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear! 
Heav’n bless your honor’d, noble 
name. 

To Masonry and Scotia dear! 

A last request permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a’. 

One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that’s far awa’. 

» Mr. Chambers states that the grand 
master referred to in the text was Major- 
General James Montgomery ; elsewhere 
the grand master is said to have been 
Sir John Whitefoord. 








29 ^ 


HIGHLAND MARY. 


AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE 
DOAT.i 

Tune—“ Jackie's gray breeks." 

Again rejoicing nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep’d in morning 
dews. 

CHORDS. 

And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e ? 
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a 
hawk 

An’ it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi’lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
And maun 1 still, etc. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his 
team, 

Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks. 
But life to me’s a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 
And maun 1 still, etc. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 
The stately swan majestic swims. 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun 1 still, etc. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding 
slap, 

And owre the moorlands wijstles 
shill, 

Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun 1 still, etc. 

And when the lark, ’tween light and 
dark. 

Blithe waukens by the daisy’s side, 

* Menie is the common abbreviation of 
Marianne. K B This chorus is a part of 
a song composed by a gentleman in Edin¬ 
burgh, a particular friend of the author’s. 
R. B. This song appeared in the first 
Edinburgh edition. 


And-mounts and sings on flittering 
wings, 

A woe-worn gliaist I hameward 
glide. 

And maun I still, etc. 

Come Winter, with thine angry 
howl. 

And raging bend t'.e naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless 
soul, 

When Nature all is sad like me! 
And maun I still on Menie doat. 
And bear the scorn that’s in 
her e’e V 

For its jet, jet black, an’ its like 
a hawk. 

An’ it winna let a body be ! 

HIGHLAND MARY.^ 

Tune—“ Katharine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
around 

The castle o’ Montgomery, 

Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 

There simmer first unfauld her robes 
And there the langest tarry; 

For there I took the last fareweel 
O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom’d the gay green 
birk. 

How rich the hawthorn’s blossom. 
As underneath their fragrant shade 
1 clasp’d her to my bosom ! 

The golden hours, on angel wings, 
Flew o’er me and my dearie; 

For dear to me, as light and life. 
Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

* Concerning this song Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson on the 14th November, 1792 :— 
“The foregoing song pleases myself; 1 
think it is in my happiest manner: you 
will see at first glance that it suits the air. 
The subject of the song is one of the 
most interesting passages of my youthful 
days; and I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air 
which would insure celebrity. Perhaps, 
after all, ’tis the still glowing prejudice 
of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre 
over the merits of the composition.” 






BANNOCKBURN. 


299 


Wi’ monie a vow, and lock’d em¬ 
brace, 

Our parting was fii’ tender; 

And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder; 

But oh! fell death’s untimely frost, 
That nipt my flower sae early! 
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the 
clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary I 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly ! 

And closed for aye the sparklius: 
glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 

And mold’ring now in silent dust. 
That heart that lo’ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom’s core 
Shall live my Highland Mary. 

AULD LANG SYNE.i 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min’ ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o’ lang syne ? 


CHORDS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 
For auld lang syne, 

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 
And pu’d the gowans tine; 

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary 
foot 

Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, etc. 

We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn, 

From morning sun till dine; 

But seas between us braid hae roar’d 
Sin auld lang syne. 

For auld, etc. 

And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere. 
And gie’s a hand o’ thine; 

' Burns stated, both to Mrs. Dunlop and 
Mr. Thomson, that Auld Lang Syne was 
old. It is, however, generally believed, that 
he was the entire, or almost the entire, 
author. In Pickering’s edition the follow¬ 
ing variations are taken from a copy in 
the Poet’s handwriting. 


And we’ll tak a right guid willie- 
waught. 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, etc. 

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, 
And surely I’ll be mine; 

And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet 
For auld lang syne. 

For auld, etc. 

BANNOCKBURN.’ 

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Tune—“ Hey tuttie taitie." 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to glorious victorie. 

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; 
See the front o’ battle lower; 

See approach proud Edward’s 
power— 

Edward! chains and slaverie 1 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor! coward! turn and flee! 

Wha for Scotland’s King and law 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 

* In September, 1793, Burns sent thissong 
to Mr. Thomson. “There is,’’ he wrote, 
“ a tradition, which I have met with in 
many places of Scotland, that it’’ (the 
old air Hey, tuttie taitie) “ was Robert 
Bruce’s march at the battle of Bannock¬ 
burn. This thought in my yesternight’s 
evening walk warmed me to a pitch of en¬ 
thusiasm on the theme of Liberty and In 
dependence, which I threw into a kind of 
Scotch ode, fitted to the air, that one 
might suppose to be the gallant royal 
Scot’s address to his heroic followers, on 
that eventful morning. So may God ever 
defend the cause of truth and liberty as 
He did that day. Amen.” Mr. Thomson 
wrote suggesting alterations, and Burns 
replied “ ‘ Who shall decide when doc¬ 
tors disagree?” My ode pleases me so 
much, that I cannot alter it. Your pro¬ 
posed alterations would, in my opinion, 
make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged 
to you for putting me on reconsidering 
it, as I think I have much improved it. . 

. . I have scrutinized it over and over; 
and to the world, some way or other, it 
shall go as it is.” 











3C0 


FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT. 


Free-man stand, or free-man fa’ ? 
Caledonian ! on wi’ me! 

By oppression’s woes and pains! 

By your sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall—they shall be free! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty’s in every blow! 

Forward! let us do, or die! 


THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Tune—“ The auld loife ayont the fire." 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
By monie a flower and spreading 
tree. 

There lives a lad, the lad for me, 

He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 

They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 
And I was fear’d my heart would 
tine. 

And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign’d my tocher-band. 
To gie the lad that has the land; 

But to my heart I’ll add my hand, 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 
While bees rejoice in opening flow¬ 
ers; 

While corn grows green in simmer 
showers, 

ril love my gallant weaver. 


SONG. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care; 
But ah! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 

To hope may be forgiven; 

For sure, ’twere impious to despair 
So much in sight of heaven. 


FOR A’ THAT AND A' THAT.^ 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a’ that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
We dare be poor for a’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that. 

Our toils obscure, and a’ that; 
The rank is but the guinea stamp : 
The man’s the gowd for a’ 
that. 

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden-gray, and a’ that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves 
their wine, 

A man’s a man for a’ that. 

For a’ that, and a’ that. 

Their tinsel show, and a’ that; 
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae 
poor. 

Is King o’ men for a’ that. 

You see young birkie, ca’d a lord, 
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that; 
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, 
He’s but a coof for a’ that; 

For a’ that, and a’ that. 

His ribbon, star, and a’ that, 
The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a’ that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a’ that; 

But an honest man’s aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that. 

Their dignities, and a’ that. 
The pith o’ sense, and pride o' 
worth. 

Are higher rank than a’ that. 

Then let us pray that come it may. 
As come it will for a’ that; 

That sense and worth, o’er a’ the 
earth, 

' [n January, 1795, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson “ A great critic (Aikin) on 
songs says that love and wine are the ex¬ 
clusive themes for song-writing. The 
^following is on neither subject, and con 
sequently is no song ; but will be allowed 
I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts converted into rhyme.” 





CLARINDA. 


301 


May bear the gree, and a’ that. 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

It’s coming yet, for a’ that, 
That man to man, the warld o’er, 
Shall brothers be for a’ that. 

DAINTY DAVID.' 

Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading 
bowers; 

And now comes in my happy hours. 
To wander wi’ my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I’ll spend the day wi’ you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa*, 

The merry birds are lovers a’. 

The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi’ my Davie. 

Meet me, etc. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare. 

Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my taithfu’ Davie. 

Meet me, etc. 

When day, expiring in the west, . 
The curtain draws 0 ’ Nature’s rest, 

I flee to his arms I lo’e best. 

And that’s my ain dear Davie. 

Meet me, etc. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Tune--“ The hopeless lover." 

Now spring has clad the groves in 
green. 

And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers; 
The furrow’d waving corn is seen 
Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 
Their sorrows to forego, 

O why thus all alone are mine 
The weary steps of woe! 

1 Of this song Burns says:—“The title 
of the song only is old : the rest is mine.” 
In Johnson’s “ Museum ’ he published an 
early version, with the burden, “ The gar¬ 
dener with his paidle.” 


The trout within yon wimpling burn 
Glides swift, a silver dart. 

And safe beneath the shady thorn 
Defies the angler’s art. 

My life was once that careless stream. 
That wanton trout was I; 

But love, wi’ unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch’d my fountain dry. 

The little flow’ret’s peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows, 

Which, save the linnet’s flight, 1 
wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 

Was mine; till love has o'er me 
past, 

And blighted a’ my bloom. 

And now beneath the withering 
blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken’d lav’rock warbling 
springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 
In morning’s rosy eye; 

As little reckt I sorrow-’s power. 
Until the flowery snare 
O’ witching love in luckless hour. 
Made me the thrall o’ care. 

O had my fate been Greenland’s 
snows 

Or Afric’s burning zone, 

Wi’ man and nature leagu’d my foes, 
So Peggy ne’er I’d knowm ! 

The wretch whase doom is, “Hope 
nae mair! ” 

What tongue his woes can tell : 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 
Nae kinder spirits dwell. 

CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 

The measur’d time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie; 

Depriv’d of thee, his life and light. 
The sun of all his joy ? 




302 


CALEDONIA. 


We part—but by these precious 
drops 

That till thy lovely eyes ! 

No other light shall guide my 
steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair suu of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day; 

And shall a glimmering planet 
fix 

My worship to its ray ? 


WHY, WHY^ TELL THY 
LOVER. 

Tune— “ Caledonian Hunt's delight.' 
Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy ? 

W'^hy, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

O why, while fancy, raptur’d, 
slumbers 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme I 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 


CALEDONIA. 

Tune— “ Caledonian Hunt's delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 

From some of your northern deities sprung: 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine ?) 

From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: 

Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 

And pledg’d her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; 

Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore, 

“ Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall rue I 

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 

To f -d her fair flocks by her green rustling corn: 

But chi .fly the woods were her fav’rite resort. 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign’d; till thitherward steers 
A. flight of bold eagles from Adria’s strand; 

Repeated, successive, for many long years. 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder’d the land. 

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside ; 

She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly. 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; 

The wild Scandinavian boar issu’d forth 
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: 

O’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; 

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d. 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 




ON THE BATTLE OF SlIERIFF-MUIR 


303 


The Cameleon-savage disturb’d her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; 

Provok’d beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb’d him at once of his hopes and his life: 

The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin’d the Tweed’s silver flood* 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free. 

Her bright course of glory forever shall run; 

For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 

I’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we’ll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; 

But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse; 

Then ergo, she’ll match them, and match them always. 


ON THE BATTLE OF 
SHERIFF-MUIR.’ 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE 
EARL OF MAR. 

Tune— “ The Cameronian rant." 

“ O CAM ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man ? 
Or were you at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man V ” 

I saw the battle, sair and teugh. 

And reeking-red ran monie a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for 
sough, 

To hear the thuds, and see the duds 
O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum’d at Kingdoms three, 
man. 

The red-coat lads, wi’ black cock 
ades. 

To meet them were na slaw, man; 
They rush’d and push’d, and blude 
outgush’d. 

And monie a bouk did fa’, man. 
And great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced tw^enty miles: 
They hack’d and hash’d, while broad 
swords clash’d, 

And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and 
smash’d, 

Till fey men died awa, man. 


But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man. 

When in the teeth they dar’d out 
whigs. 

And covenant true blues, man; 

In lines extended lang and large. 

When bayonets oppos’d the targe. 

And thousands hasten’d to the 
charge, 

Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the 
sheath 

Drew blades o’ death, till, out of 
breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 

“ O how deil, Tam, can that be true ? 
The chase gaed frae the north, 
man; 

I saw mysel, they did pursue 
The horsemen back to Forth, man; 

And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 

They took the brig wi’ a’ their 
might. 

And straught to Stirling wing’d 
their flight; 

But, cursed lot ' the gates were shut, 

And monie a huntit, poor red-coat. 
For fear amaist did swarf, man.” 

My sister Kate came up the gate 
Wi’ crowdie unto me, man , 

She swore she saw some rebels run 
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man; 


i Gilbert Burns did not consider his brother the author of this song. 




304 


O WHA IS SHE THAT LO’ES ME ? 


Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae guid-will, 
That day their neebors’ blood to spill; 
For fear, by foes, that they should 
lose 

Their cogs o’brose ; all crying woes, 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man; 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell for wrang. and some for 
right; 

But monie bade the world guid- 
night; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets’knell, 
Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell. 

And whigs to hell did flee, man, 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.’ 

Tune— “Ptts/i about the jorum.'' 

April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat V 
Then let the loons beware. Sir, 
There’s wooden walls upon our seas, 
And volunteers on shore. Sir. 

The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 
And Criflfel sink to Solw^ay, 

Ere we permit a foreign foe 
On British ground to rally ! 

Fal de ral, etc. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 
In wrangling be divided; 

Till, slap, come in an unco loon 
And wi’ a rung decide it. 

Be Britain still to Britain true, 
Amang oursels united; 

For never but by British hands 
Maun British wrangs be righted! 

Fal de ral, etc. 

The kettle o’ the kirk and state. 
Perhaps a claut may fail in’t , 

But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t. 

Our fathers’ bluid the kettle bought, 
And wha wad dare to spoil it, 

’ This song, which became immensely 
popular at the time, was published in 
the Dumfries Journal. 5th Mav, 1795. 


By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal de ral, etc. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 
And the wretch his true-born 
brother. 

Who would set the mob aboon the 
throne. 

May they be damned together! 
Who will not sing, “God save the 
King,” 

Shall hang as high’s the steeple; 
But while we sing, “ God save the 
King,” 

We’ll ne’er forget the People. 

O WHA IS SHE THAT LO’ES 
ME ? 

Tune— “ Morag." 

O WHA is she that lo’es me. 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 

O sweet is she that lo’es me, 

As dews o’ simmer weeping. 

In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

O that’s the lassie o’ my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer; 

O that’s the queen o’ womankind. 
And ne’er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming. 
That e’en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast 'sae warming, 
Had ne’er sic powers alarming; 

O that’s, etc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 

And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted. 

And thou art all delighted; 

O that’s, etc. 

If thou hast met this fair one, 

When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one. 

But her, thou hast deserted. 

And thou art broken-hearted; 

0 that’s, etc. 




O, ONCE I LOVED A BONNIE LASS. 


305 


CAPTAIN GROSE.i 

Tune— “ Sir John MalcolmJ' 

Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose ? 
Igo, and ago, 

It he’s amang liis friends or foes ? 
Irani, corara, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, and ago. 

Or drowned in the river Forth V 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, and ago. 

And eaten like a wether-haggis V 
Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram’s bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago. 

Or haudin Sarah by the wame ? 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Where’er he be, the Lord be near him! 
Igo, and ago. 

As for the deil, lie daur na steer him, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th’ enclosed 
letter, 

Igo, and ago, 

Which will oblige your humble 
debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 
Igo, and ago. 

The very stanes that Adam bore. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 
Igo, and ago. 

The coins o’ Satan’s coronation ! 
Irani, coram, dago. 

WHISTLE OWRE THE 
LAVE O’T. 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air; 
Now we’re married—spier nae mair— 
Whistle owre the lave o’t. 

’ This was written in an envelope to 
Mr. Cardonnel, the antiquary, enclosing 
^ letter to Captain Grose. 


Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature’s child— 
Wiser men than iiie’s beguil’d;— 
Whistle owre the lave o’t. 

How we live, my Meg and me. 

How we love and how we ’gree, 

I care na by how few may see— 
Whistle owre the lave o’t. 

Wha I wish were maggots’ meat. 
Dish’d up in her winding sheet, 

I could write—but Meg maun see’t— 
Whistle owre the lave o’t. 

O, ONCE I LOV’D A BONNIE 
LASS. 

Tune— “ I am a Man unmarried.'''' 

O, ONCE I lov’d a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still. 

And whilst that virtue warms my 
breast 

I’ll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de ral, etc. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And monie full as braw. 

But for a modest gracefu’ mien 
The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess 
Is pleasant to the ee. 

But without some better qualities 
She’s no a lass for me. 

But Nelly’s look’s are blithe and 
sweet. 

And what is best of a’. 

Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Both decent and genteel: 

And then there’s something in hel 
gait 

Gars onie dress look week 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart. 

But it’s innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 






3o6 


THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 


’Tis this in Neliy pleases me, 

’Tis this enchants my soul! 

For absolutely in my breast 
She reigns without control. 

Fal lal cle ral, etc. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 
In a’ our town or here awa; 

Fu’ blithe he whistled at the gaud, 
Fu’ lightly danc’d he in the ha’! 
He roos’d my een sae bonnie blue, 

He roos’d my waist sae genty sma’; 
An’ aye my heart came to my mou. 
When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain. 
Thro’ wind and weed, thro’ frost 
and snaw; 

And o’er the lea I look fu’ fain 
When Jockey’s owsen hameward 
ca’. 

An' aye the night comes round again, 
When in his arms he takes me a’; 
An’ aye he vows he’ll be my ain 
As lang’s he has a breath to draw. 

M'PHERSON’S FAREWELL.' 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 
strong, 

The wretch’s destinie; 

M'Pherson’s time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 

^ M'Pherson was a Highland freebooter, 
of great personal strength and musical 
taste and accomplishment. While lying 
in prison under sentence of death, he com¬ 
posed his Farewell, words and air, the for¬ 
mer of which began :— 

“I’ve spent my time in rioting. 

Debauch’d my health and strength; 
I squander’d fast as pillage came. 

And fell to shame at length. 

But dantonly and wantonly 
And rantonly I’ll gae : 

I’ll play a tune and dance it roun’ 
Beneath the gallows’ tree.” 

When brought to the gallows’ foot at 
Banff, he played his Farewell, and then 
broke his violin across his knee. His 
sword is preserved at Duff House. 


He play’d a spring and danc’d it 
round. 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting 
breath V— 

On monie a bloody plain 
I’ve dar’d his face, and in this place 
I scorn him yet again! 

Sae rantingly, etc. 

Untie these bands from off my hands. 
And bring to me my sword! 

And there’s no a man in all Scotland, 
But I’ll brave him at a word. 

Sae rantingly, etc. 

I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie: 

It burns my heart I must depart 
And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, etc. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine 
bright. 

And all beneath the sky! 

May coward shame disdain his name. 
The wretch that dares not die! 

Sae rantingly, etc, 

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.' 

A NEW BALLAD. 

Tune— “ The Dragon of Wantley.'*' 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 
That Scot to Scot did carry; 

And dire the discord Langside saw, 
For beauteous, hapless Mary: 

But Scot with Scot ne’er met so hot, 
Or were more in fury seen Sir. 
Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the 
famous job— 

Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 
Among the first wms number’d; 
But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store. 
Commandment the tenth remem¬ 
ber’d. 

' This ballad refers to the contest be 
tween Mr. Erskine and Mr. Dundas for the 
Deanship of the Faculty of Advocates. On 
the 12th January, 1796, Mr. Dundas was 
elected by a large majority. 





ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 


307 


Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart’s desire; 

Which shows that heaven can boil 
the pot, 

Though the devil p— in the fire. 

Squire Hal besides had, in this case, 
Pretensions rather brassy. 

For talents to deserve a place 
Are qualifications saucy; 

So their worships of the Faculty, 
Quite sick of merit’s rudeness. 
Chose one who should owe it all, 
d’ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg’d was the 
sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 

So may be, on the Pisgah height, 
Bob’s purblind, mental vision; 
Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be open’d 
yet. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 
That met the Ass of Balaam. 

In your heretic sins may ye live and 
die. 

Ye heretic eight and thirty ! 

But accept, ye sublime Majority, 

My congratulations hearty. 

With your Honors and a certain King 
In your servants this is striking— 
The more incapacity they bring. 

The more they’re to your liking. 

I’LL AYE CA’ IN BY YON TOWN. 

I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town. 

And by yon garden green again; 
I’ll aye ca’ in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There’s nane sail ken, there’s nane 
sail guess. 

What brings me back the gate 
again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu’ lass. 

And stownlins we sail meet again. 

She’ll wander by the aiken tree 
When trystin-time draws near 
again; 


And when her lovely form I see, 

O haith, she’s doubly dear again! 

A BOTTLE AND FRIEND. 

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! 

What wad ye wish foi mair, man*? 
Wha kens, before his life may end. 
What his share may be 0 ’ care, man? 
Then catch the moments as they Hy, 
And use them as ye ought, man;— 
Believe me, happiness is shy. 

And comes not aye when sought, 
man. 


I’LL KISS THEE YET. 

Tune—" 'The Braes o' Balquhidder." 
CHORUS. 

I’ll kiss thee yet, yet. 

And I’ll kiss thee o’er again. 

An’ I’ll kiss thee yet, yet. 

My bonnie Peggy Alison! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 
I ever mair defy them, O ; 

Young Kings upon their hansel 
throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O! 

I’ll kiss thee, etc. 

When in my arms, wi’a’thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O; 

I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment’s pleasure, 01 
I’ll kiss thee, etc. 

And by thy een sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I’m thine forever, O;— 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 

And break it shall I never, O! 

I’ll kiss thee, etc. 

ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tune— “ If he be a Butcher neat and trim." 

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells: 
Could I describe her shape and 
mien; 

Our lasses a’ she far excels. 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 


18—Burns—N 






3o8 


PRAYER FOR MARY. 


She’s sweeter than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn; 
An' she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

She’s stately like yon youthful ash 
That grows the cowslip braes be¬ 
tween, 

And drinks the stream with vigor 
fresh; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn 
With flow’rs so white and leaves so 
green, 

When purest in the dewy morn; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her looks are like the vernal May, 
When ev’ning Phoebus shines 
serene. 

While birds rejoice on every spray; 
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 
That climbs the mountain-sides at 
e’en. 

When flow’r-reviving rains are past; 
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow. 
When gleaming sunbeams inter¬ 
vene 

And gild the distant mountain’s 
brow; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem. 
The pride of all the flowery scene. 

Just opening on its thorny stem; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her teeth are like the nightly snow 
When pale the morning rises keen. 

While hid the murmuring streamlets 
flow; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 


Her lips are like yon cherries ripe. 
That sunny walls from Boreas 
screen; 

They tempt the taste and charm the 
sight; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washen clean. 

That slowly mount the rising steep: 
An’ she has twa glancin’ sparklin’ 
een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom’d 
bean. 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; 
An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
eeu. 

Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks un¬ 
seen. 

While his mate sits nestling in the 
bush; 

An’ she has twa sparkling roguish 
een. 

But it’s not her air, her form, her 
face, 

Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled 
queen, 

’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry 
grace. 

An’ chiefly in her roguish een. 

PRAYER FOR MARY, 

Tune— “ Blue Bonnets." 

Powers celestial, whose protection 
Ever guards the virtuous fair, 

While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care: 

Let her form sae fair and faultless, 
Fair and faultless as your own; 

Let my Mary’s kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence 
down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 
Soft and peaceful as her breast; 

Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 
Soothe her bosom into rest. 





there’ll never be peace till JAMIE COMES HOME. 309 


Guardian angels, O protect her, 
When in distant lands I roam; 

To realms unknown while fate exiles 
me. 

Make her bosom still my home. 
YOUNG PEGGY. 

Tune— “ Last time I cam o'er the Muir." 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest 
lass, 

Her blush is like the morning. 

The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 
With early gems adorning: 

Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 
That gild the passing shower, 

And glitter o’er the crystal streams. 
And cheer each fresh’ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries 
bright, 

A richer dye has grac’d them; 
They charm th’ admiring gazer’s 
sight. 

And sweetly tempt to taste them: 


Her smile is as theev’ning mild, 
When feather’d pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe. 
Such sweetness would relent her. 
As blooming Spring unbends the 
brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Distraction’s eye no aim can gain 
Her winning powers to lessen; 
And fretful Envy grins in vain, 

The poison’d tooth to fasten. 

Ye Pow’rs of Honor, Love, and 
Truth, 

From ev’ry ill defend her; 

Inspire the highly favor’d youth 
The destinies intend her. 

Still fan the sweet connubial flame 
Responsive in each bosom; 

And bless the dear parental name 
With many a filial blossom. 


THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.^ 

A SONG. 

By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was gray: 

And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— 

There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 

Delusions, oppressions, and murderous w^ars; 

We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame— 

1 here’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 

And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; 

It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame— 

There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down. 

Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 

But till my last moment my words are the same— 

There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

' On 12th March, 1791, Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson “ Lest I sink into stupid prose, 
and so sacriiegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page 
in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition. . . You must 
know a beautiful Jacobite air. There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. When 
political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful orey of historians and pop^-» 





310 


MARY MORISON. 


THERE WAS A LAD.' 
Tune— “ Dainty Davie." 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But what’n a day o’ what’n a style 
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while 
To be sae nice wi’ Robin. 

Robin was a rovin’ Boy, 

Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; 
Robin was a rovin’ Boy, 

Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. 

Our monarch’s hindmost year but 
ane 

Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’ 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof. 

Quo’ scho wha lives will see the 
proof. 

This waly boy will be nae coof, 

I think we’ll ca’ him Robin. 

He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’. 
But aye a heart aboon them a’; 

He’ll be a credit till us a’. 

We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak 
nine 

1 see by ilka score and line. 

This chap will dearly like our kin’, 
So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Quid faith, quo’ scho, I doubt you, 
Sir, 

Y'e gar the lassies lie aspar. 

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur 
So blessings on thee, Robin! 

Robin was a rovin’ Boy,. 

Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’; 
Robin was a rovin’ Boy, 

Rantin’ rovin’ Robin. 

TO MARY. 

Tune— “ Ewe-bughts, Marion." 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary 
And leave auld Scotia’s shore ? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic’s roar ? 

‘Jan. 25th, 1759, the date of my bard 
fihip’s vital existence. R. B. 


O sweet grows the lime and the 
orange 

And the apple on the pine; 

But a’ the charms o’ the Indies 
Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my 
Mary, 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to be 
true; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me. 
When I forget my vow! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white 
hand; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia’s strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 
In mutual affection to join, 

And curst be the cause that shall part 
us! 

The hour, and the moment o’ timel 
MARY MORISON.' 

Tune— “ Bide ye yet." 

O Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me sec. 
That makes the miser’s treasure 
poor; 

How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling 
string, • 

The dance gaed thro’ the lighted 
ha’. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw; 
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw. 
And yon the toast of a’ the town, 

I sigh’d, and said amang them a’, 
“Ye are na Mary Morison.” 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 

‘ On 20th March, 1793, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson “ This song is one of my 
juvenile works. I do not think it very re¬ 
markable, either for its merits or demerits. 





MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 


3II 


Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
Whase only faut is loving thee? 

If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown! 

A thought ungentle canna be 
The thought o’ Mary Morison. 

THE SODGER’S RETURN. 

Tune— “ The Mill Mill O.” 

When wild war’s deadly blast was 
blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 

Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widow mourning. 

I left the lines and tented field, 
Where lang I’d been a lodger. 

My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, 
A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast. 
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder; 

And for fair Scotia, hame again 
I cheery on did wander. 

I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 

I thought upon the witching smile 
That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach’d the bonnie glen. 
Where early life I sported ; 

I pass’d the mill, and trysting thorn. 
Where Nancy aft I courted: 

Wha spied 1 but my ain dear maid, 
Down by her mother’s dwelling! 

And turn’d me round to hide the flood 
That in my een was swelling. 

Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth 1, Sweet lass. 
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom, 

01 happy, happy may he be. 

That’s dearest to thy bosom I 


My p\irse is light. I’ve far to gang. 
And fain wad be thy lodger; 

I’ve serv’d my King and Country lang 
Take pity on a sodger 1 

Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me. 

And lovelier was than ever: 

Quo’ she, A sodger ance I lo’ed. 
Forget him shall I never: 

Our humble cot, and hamely fare. 
Ye freely shall partake it. 

That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t. 

She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose. 
Syne pale like onie lily; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 

By Him who made yon sun and sky. 
By whom true love’s regarded. 

I am the man; and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded 1 

The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame, 
And find thee still true-hearted; 

Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love, 
And mair we’se ne’er be parted. 

Quo’she. My grandsireleftme gowd, 
A mailen plenish’d fairly; 

And come, my faithful sodger lad, 
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly 1 

For gold the merchant ploughs the 
main. 

The farmer ploughs the manor; 

But glory is the sodger’s prize, 

The sodger’s wealth is honor. 

The brave poor sodger ne’er despise, 
Nor count him as a stranger. 

Remember he’s his Country’s stay 
In day and hour o’ danger. 


MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.i 

Tune— “ The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.” 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, O 

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O 

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. 

’ Concerning this song Burns writes :—“The following song is a wiki rhapsody, mis¬ 
erably deficient in versification ; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of ray 
heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." 





312 A mother’s lament for the death of her son. 


Then out into the world my course I did determine, O 
Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming. O 
My talents they were not the worst: nor yet my education, O 
Resolv’d was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O, 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune’s favor; O 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavor, O 
Sometimes by foes 1 was o’erpower’d ; sometimes by friends forsaken ; O 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass’d, and tir’d at last, with fortune’s vain delusion; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O 
The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; O 
But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; O 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labor to sustain me, O 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O 
For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlastiug slumber; O 
No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow; O 
I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O 
Tho’ fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice; O 
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther; O 
But as daily bread is all 1 need, I do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O 
Some unforseen misfortune comes generally upon me; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur’d folly; O 
But come what will, I’ve sworn it still. I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardor, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; O 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O. 


A MOTHER’S LAMENT FOR 
THE DEATH OF HER SONJ 

Tune— “ Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow 
sped. 

And pierc’d my darling’s heart; 
And with him all the joys are fled 
Life can to me impart! 

By cruel hands the sapling drops. 

In dust dishonor’d laid; 


So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age’s future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 
Bewails her ravish’d young; 

So I, for my lost darling’s sake. 
Lament the live-day long. 

Death, oft I’ve feared thy fatal blow, 
Now, fond, I bare my breast, 

O, do thou kindly lay me low 
With him I love, at rest! 


1 Composed on the death of James Fergusson, Esq., Younger, of Craigdarroch. 




ON SENSIBILITY. 


313 


BONNIE LESLEY.» 

Tune —“ The Collier's bonnie Dochter." 

O SAW ye bonaie Lesley 
As -he gaed o’er the border ? 

She's g ne, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 

And love but her forever; 

For Natirre made her what she is. 
And ne’er made sic anitherl 

Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley, 

Thy subjects we, before thee: 
Thou art divine, Fair Lesley, 

The hearts o’ men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee. 

Or aught that wad belang thee; 
He’d look into thy bonnie face. 

And say, “ I canna wrang thee.” 

The Powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha’na steer thee; 
Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, 
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. 

Return again, Fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie! 

That we may brag, we hae a lass 
There’s nane again sae bonnie. 

AMANG THE TREES. 

Tune— The King of France^ he rade a 
race." 

Amang the trees where humming 
bees 

At buds and flowers were hing¬ 
ing, O 

Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 
And to her pipe was singing; O 
*Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspey, or 
Reels, 

She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O 
When there cam a yell 0 ’ foreign 
squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O. 

» “ Bonnie Lesley ” was Miss Lesley 
Bailie, daughter of Mr. Bailie, of Ayrshire, 
Mr. Bailie, on his way to England with 
his two daughters, called on Burns at 
Dumfries. Burns mounted, accompanied 
them fifteen miles, and composed the song 
as he rode homeward. 


Their capon craws and queer ha ha’s, 
They made our lugs grow eerie; O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 
Till we were wae and wearie; O— 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was 
cas’d 

A prisoner aughteen year awa. 

He fir’d a fiddler in the north 
That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 

WHEN FIRST I CAME TO 
STEWART KYLE.i 

Tune —“ I had a horse and I had nae 
mair." 

WiiEN first 1 came to Stewart Kyle, 
My mind it was na steady. 
Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye: 

But when I came roun’ by Mauch- 
line town, 

Not dreadin’ onie body. 

My heart was caught before 1 
thought. 

And by a Mauchline lady. 


ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, 
MR.S. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Air— “ Sensibility." 

Sensibility, how charming. 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 
But distress, with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well 1 

Fairest flower, behold the lily. 
Blooming in the sunny ray: 

Let the blast sweep o’er the valley. 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o’er his little joys; 

Hapless bird! a prey the surest 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 

1 Jean Armour is the “ Mauchline lady ^ 
referred to. 





314 


EVAN BANKS. 


MONTGOMERIE’S PEGGYA 

Tune—“ Galla Water." 

Altho’ my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Blad I my dear Montgomerie’s 
Peggy. 

When o’er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and 
rainy, 

I’d seek some dell, and in my arms 
I’d shelter dear Montgomerie’s 
Peggy. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting 
ready. 

Then a’ ’twad gie o’ joy to me, 

The sharin’t wi’ Montgomerie’s 
Peggy. 


ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer 
day. 

For summer lightly drest, 

The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 
With love and sleep opprest; 

When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the 
wood, 

Who for her favor oft had sued; 

He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, he 
blush’d. 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons 
sheath’d. 

Were seal’d in soft repose; 

Her lips, still as she fragrant breath’d. 
It richer dy’d the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest. 
Wild-wanton kiss’d her rival breast; 

* “ My Montgomerie’s Peggy,” writes 
Burns “was my deity for six or eight 
months. ... A vanity of showing my 
parts in courtship, particularly my abili¬ 
ties at a billet-doux, which I always piqued 
myself upon, made me lay siege to her.” 
Burns, after he had warmed into a pas¬ 
sion for Peggy, found that she was pre- 
engaged, and confessed that it cost him 
fomo heartaches to get rid of the affair. 


He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, ho 
blush’d. 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the 
breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace! 

Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering ardent kiss he stole; 

He gaz’d, he wish’d, he fear’d, ho 
blush’d, 

And sigh’d his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake 
On fear-inspired wings; 

So Nelly, starting, half awake. 

Away affrighted springs: 

But Willie follow’d—as he should. 
He overtook her in the wood: 

He vow’d, he pray’d, he found the 
maid 

Forgiving all, and good. 

O RAGING FORTUNE’S 
WITHERING BLAST. 

O RAGING fortune’s withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low! O 
O raging fortune’s withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low! O 

My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow; O 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. 
And made my branches grow; O 

But luckless fortune’s northern 
storms 

Laid a’ my blossoms low, O 
But luckless fortune’s northern 
storms 

Laid a’ ray blossoms low, O. 
EVAN BANKS.i 

Tune—“-S avouma Delish." 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul 
desires. 

The sun from India’s shore retires: 

’ Dr. Currie inserted this in his first 
edition, but withdrew it on finding it 
was the composition of Helen Maria Wil¬ 
liams. Burns had copied it; his MS. is 
now in the British Museum. 




TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 


315 


To Evan Banks with temp’rate ray, 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

Oh Banks to me forever dear I 
Oh stream, whose murmur still I 
hear 1 

All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde 

And she, in simple beauty drest. 
Whose image lives within my breast; 
Who trembling heard my parting 
sigh, 

And long pursued me with her eye: 

Does she, with heart unchang’d as 
mine, 

Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 

Or, where yon grot o’erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 

Ye lofty Banks that Evan bound. 

Ye lavish woods that wave around. 
And o’er the stream your shadows 
throw. 

Which sweetly winds so far below; 

What secret charm to mem’ry brings. 
All that on Evan’s border springs! 
Sweet Banks! ye bloom by Mary’s 
side: 

Blest stream! she views thee haste to 
Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India’s coast 
Atone for years in absence lost! 
Return, ye moments of delight, 

With richer treasures bless my sight! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart! 

No more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to 
Clyde! 

WOMEN’S MINDS. 

Tune—“ For o' that." 

Tho’ women’s minds like winter 
winds 

May shift and turn, and a’ that. 
The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 


For a’ that, and a’ that. 

And twice as meikle’s a’ that. 
The bonnie lass that 1 loe best 
She’ll be my ain for a’ that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a’ that; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, etc. 

But there is ane aboon the lave, 

Flas wit, and sense, and a’ that; 

A bonnie lass, I like her best. 

And wha a crime dare ca’ that ? 
For a’ that, etc. 

In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi’ mutual love and a’ that; 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a’ that, etc. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft. 
They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that; 
But clear your decks, and here’s 
“The Sex!” 

I like the jades for a’ that. 

For a’ that, etc. 

TO MxVRY IN HEAVEN.> 

Tune—“A fiss Forbes* farewell to Banff " 
Tnou lingering star, with less’uing 
ray, 

That lov’st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher’st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear’st thou the groans that rend 
his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ?• 

Can I forget the hallow’d grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 
To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 
Those records dear of transports 
past; 

Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah! little thought we ’twas our 
last! 

' This sonpr was written on one of che 
anniversaries of Highland Mary’s death. 




3i6 


ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 


Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore, 
O’erhimg with wild woods, thick- 
’uiug green; 

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn 
hoar. 

Twin’d am’rous round the raptur’d 
scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be 
prest. 

The birds sang love on ev’ry spray. 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
Proclaim’d the speed of winged 
day. 

Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry 
wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care! 

Time but the impression deeper 
makes, 

As streams their channels deeper 
wear. 

My Mary, dear departed shade! 
Where is thy blissful place of rest? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend 
his breast? 

TO MARY. 

Could aught of song declare my 
pains. 

Could artful numbers move thee, 

The Muse should tell, in labor’d 
strains, 

O Mary, how I love thee! 

The}'" who but feign a wounded heart 
May teach the lyre to languish; 

But what avails the pride of art. 
When wastes the soul with an¬ 
guish? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 
The heart-felt pang discover; 

And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th’ imploring lover! 

For well I know thy gentle mind 
Disdains art’s gay disguising; 

Beyond what fancy e’er refin’d. 

The voice of nature prizing. 

O LEAVE NOVELS. 

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye’re safer at your spinning wheel; 


Such witching books are baited hooka 
For rakish rooks, like Rob Moss* 
giel. 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies 
reel. 

They heat your brains, and fire your 
veins. 

And then you’re prey for Rob 
IMossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that’s smoothly 
hung; 

A heart that warmly seems to feel; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 
’Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress. 
Are worse than poison’d darts of 
steel. 

The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 

ADDRESS TO GENERAL 
DUMOURIER.! 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 

You’re welcome to Despots, Du- 
mourier; 

You’re welcome to Despots, Du- 
mourier; 

How does Dampier do? 

Aye, and Bournonville too? 

Why did they not come along with 
you, Dumourier? 

I will fight France with you, Dumou¬ 
rier; 

I will fight France with you, Dumou¬ 
rier ; 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you; 

By my soul I’ll dance a dance with 
you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Theu let us fight about, Dumourier; 
Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom’s spark is out. 

Then we’ll be damn’d no doubt—Du¬ 
mourier. 

* Burns chanted these verses on hear¬ 
ing come one express his joy at General 
Dumourier’s defection from the service 
of the French Republic. 




THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT. 


317 


SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May, let love inspire 
thee; 

Take a heart which he designs 
thee; 

As thy constant slave regard it; 

For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o’ shot to birth or money, 

Not the wealthy, but the bonuie; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded. 

In love’s silken band can bind it! 


ONE NIGHT AS I DID 
WANDER. 

Tune —“ John Anderson my Jo." 
One night as I did wander, 
When corn begins to shoot, 

I sat me down to ponder, 
Upon an auld tree root; 

Auld Ayr ran by before me. 
And bicker’d to the seas; 

A cushat crooded o’er me 
That echoed thro’ the braes. 


THE WINTER IT IS PAST. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last. 
And the small birds sing on every tree; 

Now everything is glad, while I am very sad. 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear. 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee; 

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 


FRAGMENT. 


Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her! 


Her lips are roses wet wi’ dew 1 
O, what a feast her bonnie mou; 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner! 


THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT. 

Tune— “ Captain O'Kean." 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning. 

The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the vale, 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning. 

And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green dale: 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

While the lingering moments are number’d by care c 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing. 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar’d could it merit their malice, 

A King or a Father to place on his throne? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none, 

But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn. 

My brave gallant friends, ’tis your ruin I mourn; 

Your deeds prov’d so loyal in hot bloody trial, 

Alas! can I make you no sweeter return ? 






318 


THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 


THE BELLS OF MAUCHLINE. 

Tune— “ Dundee." 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, 
The pride of the place and its neighborhood a’. 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon’on or Paris they’d gotten it a’ ; 

Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markland’s divine. 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: 
There’s beauty and fortune to get wi’ Miss Morton, 
But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’. 


THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 


If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 

Ye’ll there see bonnie Peggy; 

She kens her father is a laird, 

And she forsootlTs a leddy. 

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright. 
Besides a handsome fortune; 

Wha canna win her in a night. 

Has little art in courting, 

Gae down by Faile, and taste the 
ale, 

And tak a look o’ Mysie; 

She’s dour and din, a deil within, 
But aiblins she may please ye. 


If she be sliy, her sister try, 

Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenn 3 % 

If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense— 
She kens hersel she’s bonnie. 

As ye gae up by yon hill-side, 

Speer in for bonnie Bessy; 

She’ll gi’e ye a beck, and bid ye light. 
And handsomely address ye. 

There’s few sae bonnie, nane sae 
glide. 

In a’ King George’ dominion ; 

If ye should doubt the truth o’ this— 
It’s Bessy’s ain opinion 1 


THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men, 
And proper young lasses and a’, man; 

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, 

• They carry the gree frae them a’, man. 

Their fathor’s a laird, and weel he can spare’t. 
Braid money to tocher them a’, man. 

To proper young men, he’ll clink in the hand 
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man. 

There’s ane they ca’ Jean, I’ll warrant ye’ve seen 
As bonnie a lass or as braw, man. 

But for sense and guid taste she’ll vie wi’ the best, 
And a conduct that beautifies a’, man. 

The charms o’ the min’, the langer they shine, 

The mair admiration they draw, man; 

While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies. 
They fade and they wither awa, man. 




THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 


319 


If ye be for Miss Jean, tak tins frae a frien’, 

A hint o’ a rival or twa, man, 

The Laird o’ Blackbyre wad gang through the fire 
If that wad entice her awa, man. 

The Laird o’ Braehead has been on his speed, 

For mair than a towmond or twa, man, 

The Laird o’ the Ford will straught on a board, 

If he canna get her at a’, man. 

Then Anna comes in, the pride o’ her kin. 

The boast of our bachelors a’, man; 

Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete. 

She steals our affections awa, man. 

If I should detail the pick and the wale 
O’ lasses that live here awa, man. 

The fault wad be mine, if they didna shine, 

The sweetest and best o’ them a’, man. 

I lo’e her mysel, but darena weel tell, 

My poverty keeps me in awe, man. 

For making o’ rhymes, and working at times, 

Does little or naething at a’, man.- 

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, 

Nor ha’e’t in her power to say na, man. 

For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure. 

My stomach’s as proud as them a’, man. 

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride, 

And flee o’er the hills like a craw, man, 

I can baud up my head wi’ the best o’ the breed. 
Though buttering ever so braw, man. 

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o’ the best, 
O’ pairs o’ guid breeks I ha’e twa, man. 

And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps. 
And ne’er a wrang steek in them a’, man. 

My sarks they are few, but five o’ them new, 

Twal’ hundred, as white as the snaw, man, 

A ten-shilling’s hat, a Holland cravat; 

There are no mony poets sae braw, man. 

I never had frien’s, weel stockit in means, 

To leave me a hundred or twa, man, 

Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants. 
And wish them in hell for it a’, man. 

I never was canny for hoarding o’ money. 

Or claughtin’t together at a’, man, 

I’ve little to spend, and naething to lend, 

But deevil a shilling I awe, man. 



320 MY lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t. 


HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM 
THAT’S AWA.^ 

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to 
our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa’! 
It’s guid to be merry and wise, 

It’s guid to be honest and true. 

It’s guid to support Caledonia’s 
cause. 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s a health to Charlie the chief o’ 
the clan, 

Altho’ that his band be but sma’. 
May liberty meet wi’ success! 

May prudence protect her frae evil! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the 
mist. 

And wander their way to the devil ? 

Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa; 
Here’s a health to Tammie,2the Nor¬ 
land laddie, 

That lives at the lug o’ the law ! 
Here’s freedom to him that wad read, 
Here’s freedom to him that wad 
write! 

There’s nane ever fear’d that the 
truth should be heard, 

But they wham the truth wad indite. 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa, 
Here’s Chieftain M‘Leod, a Chief¬ 
tain worth gowd, 

Tho’ bred among mountains o’ snaw ? 
I’M OWRE YOUNG TO 
MARRY YET.3 
I AM my mammie’s ae bairn, 

Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir; 

And lying in a man’s bed. 

I’m fiey’d wad mak me eerie. Sir. 

CHORUS. 

I’m owre young. I’m owre young. 
I’m owre young to marry yet; 

^ Charles James Fox. 

® Thomas Erskine. 

® Burns writes The chorus of this 
song is old ; the rest of it, such as it is, 
is mine,” 


I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin 
To tak me frae my mammie yet. 

My mammie coft me a new gown. 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; 

Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, 

I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. 
I’m owre young, etc. 

Hallowmas is come and gane,' 

The nights are langin winter. Sir; 

And you an’ I in ae bed. 

In troth I dare na venture. Sir. 

I’m owe young, etc. 

Fu’ loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir; 

But if ye come this gate again. 

I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 

I’m owre young, etc. 

DAMON AND SYLVIA. 

Tune—” r/ie tither morn, as I forlorn.' 

Yon wand’ring rill, that marks the 
hill. 

And glances o’er the brae. Sir: 

Slides by a bower where monie a 
flower 

Sheds fragrance on the day. Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay: 
To love they thought nae crime, 
Sir, 

The wild birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon’s heart beat time. 
Sir. 

MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S 
GAIRS UPON’T. 

CHORUS. 

My lady’s gown there’s gairs 
upon’t, 

And gowden flowers sae rare 
upon’t; 

But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet. 
My lord thinks muckle mair 
upon’t. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi’ him are 
nane. 

By Colin’s cottage lies his game, 

If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. 

My lady’s gown, etc. 




O GUID ALE COMES. 


321 


My lady’s white, my lady’s red. 

And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude. 
But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid 
Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. 
My lady’s gown, etc. 

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather 
pass. 

There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

My lady’s gown, etc. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns; 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue. 
Where laughing love sae wanton 
swims. 

My lady’s gown, etc. 

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest. 

The flower and fancy o’ the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo’es best, 
O that’s the lass to make him blest. 
My lady’s gown, etc. 

O AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG 
ME. 

CHORUS. 

O aye my wife she dang me, 

An’ aft my wife did bang me; 

If ye gie a woman a’ her will, 
Guid faith she’ll soon o’ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent. 
And fool I was I marry’d; 

But never honest man’s intent 
As cursedly miscarry’d. 

Some sa’r o’ comfort still at last. 
When a’ thir days are done, man. 
My pains o’ hell on earth are past, 
I’m sure o’ bliss aboon, man. 

O aye my wife, etc. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 

A BALLAD. 

To thee, lov’d Nith, thy gladsome 
plains. 

Where late wi’ careless thought I 
rang’d. 

Though prest wi’ care and sunk in 
woe. 

To thee I bring a heart unchang’d. 


I love thee, Nith, thy banks and 
braes, 

Tho’ mem’ry there my bosom tear; 
For there he rov’d that brake my 
heart. 

Yet to that heart, ah, still how 
dear! 

BONNIE PEG. 

As I came in by our gate end. 

As day was waxin’ weary, 

O wha came tripping down the street. 
But bonnie Peg, my dearie 1 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi’ nae proportion wanting. 

The Queen of Love did never move 
Wi’ motion mair enchanting. 

Wi’ linked hands, we took the sands 
Adown yon winding river; 

And, oh! that hour and broomy 
bower. 

Can 1 forget it ever ? 

0 LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, 
LASS. 

CHORUS. 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass. 

In mine, lass, in mine, lass. 

And swear in thy white hand, lass. 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A SLAVE to love’s unbounded sway. 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae; 
But now he is my deadly fae. 

Unless thou be my ain. 

O lay thy loof, etc. 

There’s monie a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I hae lo’ed best; 

But thou art Queen within my breast, 
Forever to remain. 

O lay thy loof, etc. 

O GUID ALE COMES. 

CHORUS. 

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 





322 


THE FIVE CARLINS. 


I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh, 

They drew a’ weel eneugh, 

I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane; 
Quid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale bauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, 
Stand i’ the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

O guid ale comes, etc. 

O WHY THE DEUCE. 

EXTEMPORE. APRIL, 1782 . 

O WHY the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder? 

I’m twenty-three, and five feet nine— 
I’ll go and be a sodger. 

I gat some gear wi’ meikle care, 

I held it weel thegither; 

But now it’s gane and something 
mair. 

I’ll go and be a sodger. 

POLLY STEWART. 

Tune—” Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 
CHORUS. 

O lovely Polly Stewart, 

O charming Polly Stewart, 
There’s ne’er a flower that blooms 
in May, 

That’s half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s, 
And art can ne’er renew it; 

But worth and truth eternal youth 
Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy 
charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart; 

To him be given to ken the heaven 
He grasps in Polly Stewart. 

O lovely, etc. 

ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 

CHORUS. 

Robin shure in hairst, 

,I sure wi’ him, 

Eient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I GAED up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o’ plaiden, 


At his daddie’s yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho’ I was a cotter. 

Play’d me sick a trick 
And me the eller’s dochter? 

Robin promis’d me 
A’ my winter vittle; 

Fieot haet he had but three 
Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, etc. 

THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 1789 . 

Tune— “ Chevy Chase." 

There were five Carlins in the south, 
They fell upon a scheme. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 
To bring us tidings hame. 

Not only bring us tidings hame. 

But do our errands there. 

And aiblins gowd and honor baith 
Might be that laddie’s share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o’ 
Nith, 

A dame wi’ pride eneugh; 

And Marjorie o' the monie Lochs, 

A Carlin old an’ teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o’ Annandale, 

That dwells near Solway side. 

And whisky Jean that took her gill 
In Galloway so wide. 

An’ auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

O’ gipsy kith an’ kin. 

Five wighter Carlins were na foun’ 
The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon’on town 
They met upon a day, 

And monie a Kniglit and monie a 
Laird, 

That errand fain would gae. 

O! monie a Knightand monie a Laird, 
This errand fain would gae; 

But nae ane could their fancy please, 
O! ne’er a ane but twae. 




THE DEUKS DANG O’ER MY DADDIE. 


323 


The first ane was a belted Knight ^ 
Bred o' a border clan, 

And he wad gae to Lon’on town, 
Might nae man him withstan’: 

And he wad do their errands weel 
And meikle he wad say, 

And ilka ane at Lon’on court 
Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then neist came in a sodger youth 2 
And spak wi’ modest grace, 

An’ he wad gae to Lon’on town. 

If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift. 
Nor meikle speech pretend; 

But he would hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne’er desert his friend. 

Now wham to choose and wham re¬ 
fuse, 

To strife thae Carlins fell; 

For some had gentle folk to please, 
And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ 
Nith, 

An’ she spak out wi’ pride. 

An’ she wad send the sodger youth 
Whatever might betide. 

For the auld guidman® o’ Lon’on court 
She didna care a pin. 

But she wad send the sodger youth 
To greet his eldest son.^ 

Then up sprang Bess o’ Annandale: 

A deadly aith she’s ta’en. 

That she wad vote the border Knight, 
Tho’ she should vote her lane. 

For far aff fowls hae feathers fair. 
An’ fools o’ change are fain; 

But I hae tried the border Knight, 
I’ll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

A Carlin stoor and grim. 

The auld guidman or young guidman, 
For me may sink or swim! 

* Sir James Johnstone. 

® Captain Miller of Dalswinton. 

® King George III. 

* The Prince of Wales. 


For fools may freit o’ right and 
wrang. 

While knaves laugh them to scorn: 

But the sodger’s friends hae blawn 
the best, 

Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o’er her 
drink. 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a’, 

The auld guidman o’ Lon’on court. 
His back’s been at the wa’. 

And monie a friend that kiss’d his 
caup. 

Is now a fremit wight; 

But it’s ne’er sae wi’ whisky Jean,— 
We’ll send the border Knight. 

Then slow raise Marjorie o’ the 
Lochs, 

And w'l’iukled was her brow; 

Her ancient weed was russet gray. 
Her auld Scots bluid was true. 

There’s some great folks set light by 
me, 

I set as light by them ; 

But I will send to Lon’ou town, 

Wha I lo’e best at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will end 
Nae mortal wight can tell; 

God grant the King and ilka man 
May look weel to himsel’ ! 

THE DEUKS DANG O’ER 
MY DADDIE. 

The bairns gat out wi’ an unco 
shout, 

The deuks dang o’er my daddie, 
O! 

The fient ma care, quo’ the feirie 
auld wife. 

He was but a paidlin body, O! 

He paidles out, and he paidles in. 
An’ he paidles late and early, O, 

This seven lang years I hae lien by 
his side, 

An’ he is but fusionless carlie, O. 

O hand your tongue, my feirie auld 
wife, 

O baud your tongue now, Nansie, 

O. 




324 


THE UNION. 


I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O; 

I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my 
brose 

And cuddl’d me late and earlie, O; 
But downa do’s come o’er me now, 
And, oh, I find it sairly, O! 

THE LASS THAT MADE THE 
BED TO ME. 

When Januar’ wind was blawing 
cauld 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 
I knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o’ my care; 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid, 

And thank’d her for her courtesie; 
I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid. 

And bade her mak a bed to me. 

She made the bed baith large and 
wide, 

Wi’ twa white hands she spread it 
down; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips. 

And drank, “Young man, now 
sleep ye soun.” 

She snatch’d the candle in her hand. 
And frae my chamber went wi’ 
speed; 

But I call’d her quickly back again 
To lay some mair below my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me wi’ due respect; 
And to salute her wi’ a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

“ Haudaff your hands, young man,” 
she says, 

“ And dinna sae uncivil be: 

If ye hae onie love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie! ” 

Her hair was like the links o’ gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie; 

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. 
The lass that made the bed to me. 


Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; 
Her limbs the polish’d marble stane. 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss’d her owre and owre again. 
And aye she wist na what to say; 
I laid her between me and the wa’,— 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 

I thank’d her for her courtesie; 
But aye she blush’d, and aye she 
sigh’d, 

And said, “Alas! ye’ve ruin’d me.” 

I clasp’d her waist, and kiss’d her 
syne. 

While the tear stook twinkling in 
her ee; 

I said, “My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall make the bed to 
me.” 

She took her mither’s Holland sheets, 
And made them a’ in sarks to me: 
Blithe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

The bonnie lass made the bed to me. 
The braw lass made the bed to me; 
I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

THE UNION. 

Tune—“ Such a parcel of rogues in a 
nation." 

Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame, 
Fareweel our ancient glory I 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 
Sae fam’d in martial story! 

Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands. 
And Tweed rins to the ocean. 

To mark where England’s province 
stands; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a na¬ 
tion. 

What guile or force could not subdue, 
Through many warlike ages. 

Is wrought now by a coward few. 
For hireling traitors’ wages. 

The English steel we could disdain, 
Secure in valor’s station, 





WEE WILLIE. 


325 


But English gold has been our bane; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a na¬ 
tion ! 

O would, or had I seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us, 
My auld gray head had lain in clay, 

Wi’ Bruce and loyal Wallace! 

But pith and power, till my last 
hour 

ril mak this declaration. 

We’re bought and sold for English 
gold: 

Such a parcel of rogues in a na¬ 
tion 1 


THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

There was a bonnie lass, and a 
bonnie, bonnie lass. 

And she lo’ed her bonnie laddie 
dear; 

Till war’s loud alarms tore her laddie 
frae her arms, 

Wi’ monie a sigh and tear. 

Over sea, over shore, where the can¬ 
nons loudly roar. 

He still was a stranger to fear: 


And nocht could him quell, or his 
bosom assail, 

But the bonnie lass he lo’ed sae 
dear. 

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT 
GAY. 

Tune—“ Highlander's lament." 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu’ stately strade he on the plain! 
But now he’s banish’d far away. 

I’ll never see him back again. 

CHORUS. 

O for him back again, 

O tor him back again, 

1 wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s land, 
For Highland Harry back 
again. 

When a’ the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen; 

1 sit me down and greet my fill. 

And aye 1 wish him back again. 

O for him, etc. 

O were some villains hangit high, 
And ika body had their ain. 

Then I might see the joyfu’ sight, 
My Highland Harry back again I 
O for him, etc. 


TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune—“ Johnny M'Oill." 

O WILT thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

O wilt thou go wi’ me. sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

Wilt thou rid^e on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 

Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money, 

1 care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly: 

But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur. 

And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 

WEE WILLIE. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 

Peel a willow-wand, to be him boots and jacket: 

The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet. 
The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet! 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 

Twice a lily flower will be him sark and cravat; 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 




326 


LADY ONLIE. 


CRAIGIE-BURN-WOOD. 

CHORUS. 

Beyoiid thee, dearie, beyond thee, 
dearie, 

And O to be lying beyond thee, 
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he 
sleep, 

That’s laid in the bed beyond 
thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie 
burn-wood. 

And blithely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the 
Craigie-burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, etc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But pleasure they hae nane for me, 
While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, etc. 

I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger; 

But secret love will break my heart 
If 1 conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, etc. 

I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall, 
1 see thee sweet and bonnie, 

But oh, what will my torments be, 

If thou refuse thy Johnnie! 
Beyond thee, etc. 

To see thee in anither’s arms. 

In love to lie and languish, 

’Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 
My heart wad burst wi’ anguish. 
Beyond thee, etc. 

But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine. 
Say, thou lo’es nane before me; 
An’ a’ my days o’ life to come, 

I’ll gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, etc. 

HERE’S HIS HEALTH IN 
WATER I 

Tune—“ The job of journey-work.'" 
Altho’ my back be at the wa’, 

And tho’ he be the fautor; 


Altho’ my back be at the wa’. 

Yet, here’s his health in water! 

O! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawdie he could flatter; 

Till for his sake I’m slighted sair. 
And dree the kintra clatter. 

But tho’ my back be at the wa’, 

And tho’ he be the fautor; 

But tho’ my back be at the wa’, 

Yet, here’s his health in water! 

AS DOWN THE BURN THEY 
TOOK THEIR WAY. 

As down the burn they took theil 
way, 

And thro’ the flowery dale; 

His cheeks to hers he aft did lay. 
And love was aye the tale. 

With “Mary, when shall we re¬ 
turn. 

Sic pleasure to renew ? ’' 

Quoth Mary, ‘ ‘ Love, I like the 
burn. 

And aye shall follow you.” 

LADY ONLIE. 

Tune—“ Ruffian''s rant."" 

A’ the lads o’ Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o* 
Bucky, 

They’ll step in an’ tak’ a pint 
Wi’ Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 
Brews gude ale at shore o’ 
Bucky; 

I wish her sale for her gude ale. 
The best on a’ the shore o’ 
Bucky. 

Her house sae bien, her curch sae 
clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 
Brews gude ale at shore o’ 
Bucky; 

I wish her sale for her gude ale, 
The best on a’ the shore o* 
j Bucky. 





OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR. 327 


AS I WAS A WANDERING. 

Tune—“ Rinn meudial mo mhealladh." 

Ts I was a wand’riag ae midsummer e’enin’, 

The pipers and youngsters were making their game. 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 

Which bled a’ the wounds o’ my dolor again. 

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’ him; 
I may be distress’d, but I winna complain; 

I flatter my fancy I may get anither. 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

I could na get sleeping till dawin’ for greetin’. 

The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain; 

Had I na got greetin’, my heart wad a broken. 

For, oh! love forsaken’s a tormenting pain. 

Altho’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win; 

I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow 
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’ him, 

I may be distress’d, but I winna complain; 

I flatter my fanc}" I may get anither. 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 


BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY. 

Tune—“ 2'he Killogie." 
Bannocks o’ bear meal, 
Bannocks o’ Barley; 

Here’s to the Highlandman’s 
Bannocks o’ barley. 

Wha in a brulzie 
Will first cry a parley ? 

Never the lads wi’ 

The bannocks o’ barley. 

Bannocks o’ bear meal. 
Bannocks o’ Barley; 

Here’s to the lads wi’ 

The bannocks o’ barley; 

Wha in his wae-days 
Were loyal to Charlie ? 

Wha but the lads wi’ 

The bannocks o’ barley. 

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED 
FRESH AND FAIR. 

Tune—“ Awa Whigs, awa." 
CHORUS. 

Awa Whigs, awa! 

Awa Whigs, awa! 


Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, 
Ye’ll do nae good at a’. 

Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair, 
And bonnie bloom’d our roses; 

But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither’d a’ our posies. 

Our ancient crown’s fa’n in the dust— 
Deil blin’ them wi’ the stoure o’t; 
And write their names in his black 
beuk, 

Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t. 

Our sad decay in Church and State 
Surpasses my describing; 

The Whigs came o’er us for a curse, 
And we hae done with thriving. 

Grim vengeance lang has ta’en a nap, 
But we may see him wauken; 
Gude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin. 

Awa Whigs, awa! 

Awa Whigs, awa! 

Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, 

I Ye’ll do nae gude at a’. 




328 


COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 


PEG-A-RAMSEY. 

Tune—“ Cauld is the e'enin' blast." 
Cauld is the e’enia’ blast 
O’ Boreas o’er the pool, 

And dawin’ it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast 
When bitter bites the frost, 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne’er sae murky blew the night 
That diiited o’er the hill, 

But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill, 

COME BOAT ME O’ER TO 
CHARLIE. 

Tune—“ O’er the xmter to Charlie." 
Cojo: boat me o’er, come row me o’er, 
Come boat me o’er to Charlie; 

I’il gie John Ross another bawbee. 
To boat me o’er to Charlie. 

We’ll o’er the water and o’er the 
sea, 

We’ll o’er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we’ll 
gather and go. 

And live or die wi’ Charlie. 

I lo’e weel my Charlie’s name, 

Tho’ some there be abhor him; 

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame, 
And Charlie’s faes before him! 

I ^ear and vow by moon and stars. 
And sun that shines so early. 

If I had twenty thousand lives, 

I’d die as aft for Charlie. 

We’ll o’er the water and o’er the 
sea. 

We’ll o’er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we’ll 
gather and go. 

And live or die with Charlie! 

BRAW LADS OF GALLA 
WATER. 

Tune—“ Galla Water." 
CHORUS. 

Draw, braw lads of Galla Water; 
O braw lads of Galla Water! 


I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 
And follow my love through the 
water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie; 
Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her 
mou’. 

The mail’ I kiss she’s aye my dearie. 

O’er you bank and o’er yon brae, 

O’er yon moss among the heather; 
I’ll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 
And follow my love through the 
water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood. 

That cost her mouy a blirt and 
bleary. 

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 

O braw lads of Galla Water; 
I’ll kilt my coats aboon m}’^ knee, 
And follow my love through 
the water. 

COMING THROUGH THE 
RYE. 

Tune—“ Coming through the rxje." 

CoMCNG through the rye, poor 
body, 

Coming through the rye. 

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie. 
Coming through the rye. 
Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body, 
Jenny’s seldom dry; 

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body— 
Coming through the rye; 

Gin a body kiss a body— 

Need a body cry? 

Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the glen. 

Gin a body kiss a body— 

Need the world ken? 

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor bdSy; 

Jenny’s seldom dry; 

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 




HEE BALOU. 


329 


TFIE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 

Tune—“ t/ac7c?/ Latin." 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi’ aaetliiiig? 
liock and reel, and spinnin’ wheel, 
A mickle quarter basin. 

Bye attour, my gutclier has 
A hich house and a laigh ane, 

A’ forbye, my bonnie sel’. 

The toss of Ecclefechau. 


O hand your tongue now, Luckie 
Laing, 

O hand your tongue and jauner; 

I held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wander: 

I tint my whistle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie 
Laing, 

Wad airt me to my treasure. 


THE SLAVE’S LAMENT. 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral. 

For the lands of Virginia, O; 

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more, 
And alas I am weary, weary, O! 


All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or frost. 

Like the lands of Virginia, O, 

There streams forever flow, and there flowers forever blow, 
And alas I am weary, weary, O! 

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, 

In the lands of Virginia, O; 

And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear. 
And alas I am weary, weary, O! 


HAD I THE WYTE. 

Tune—“ Had I the loyte she bade me." 
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte. 
Had I the wyte she bade me; 

She watch’d me by the hie-gate side. 
And up the loan she shaw’d me; 
A*.d when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca’d me; 

Had kirk and state been in the gate, 
I lighted when she bade me. 

Sae craftilie she took me ben, 

And bade me make nae clatter; 

“ For our ramgunshoch glum gude- 
man 

Is out and ower the water ” 
Whae’er shall say I wanted grace. 
When I did kiss and dawte her, 
J.et him be planted in my place, 
Syne say I was the fautor. 

Could I for shame, could I for shame. 
Could I for shame refused her? 
And wadna manhood been to blame. 
Had I unkindly used her? 

He clawed her wi’ the ripplin-kame. 
And blue and bluidy bruised her, 


When sic a husband was frac liame, 
What wife but had excused her ? 

I dighted aye her een sae blue. 

And bann’d the cruel randy; 

And weel I wat her willing mou’ 
Was e’en like sugar-candy. 

A gloamiu-shot it was I trow, 

I lighted on the Monday; 

But I cam through the Tysday’sdew, 
To wanton Willie’s brandy. 

HEE BALOU. 

Tune—“ r/i-e Highland balou." 

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald 
Picture o’ the great Clanronald; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie. 

An’ thou live, thou’ll steal a naigie: 
Travel the country thro’ and thro’. 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 

Thro’ the Lawlands, o’er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder: 
Herry the lounso’ the laigh countree, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 





330 


THE cardin’ O’T. 


HER DADDIE FORBAD. 

Tune— “ JitOTpai’ John." 

Her daddie forbad, her minnie for¬ 
bad ; 

Forbidden she wadna be; 

She wadna trow’t, the browst she 
brew’d 

Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ 
John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie, 
The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ 
John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 

A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf 
And thretty gude shillin’s and 
three; 

A very good tocher, a cotter-man’s 
dochter, 

The lass with the bonnie black ee. 
The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ 
John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 
The lang lad they ca’ Jumpin’ 
John 

Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 

HERE’S TO THY HEALTH, 
MY BONNIE LASS. 

Tune— “ Laggan Burn." 

Here’s to thy health, my bonnie 
lass, 

Gude night, and joy be wi’ thee; 
I’ll come nae mairto thy bower door, 
To tell thee that I lo’e thee. 

O dinna think, my pretty pink. 

That I can live without thee; 

I vow and swear I dinna care 
How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou’rt aye sae fr'^e informing me 
Thou hast nae mind to marry; 

I’ll be as free informing thee 
Nae time hae I to tarry. 

I ken thy friends try ilka means, 
Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
Depending on some higher cliance— 
But fortune may betray thee. 

1 ken they scorn my low estate. 

But that does never grieve me; 
But I’m as free as any he, 

Sma’ siller will relieve me. 


I count my health my greatest 
wealth, 

Sae lang as I’ll enjoy it; 

I’ll fear nae scant. I’ll bode nae want, 
As lang’s I get employment. 

But far all fowls hae feathers fair, 
And aye until ye try them: 

Tho’ they seem fair, still have a care. 
They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon 
shines bright. 

My dear, I’ll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo’es his mistress 
weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 
HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 

Tune—“ The Dusty Miller." 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat; 

He will win a shilling. 

Or he spend a groat. 

Dusty was the coat. 

Dusty was the color. 
Dusty was the kiss 
That I got frae the miller. 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty sack; 

Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 

Fills the dusty peck. 

Brings the dusty siller; 

1 wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 

THE CARDIN’ O’T. 

Tune —“ Salt Fish and Dumplings." 

I COPT a stane o’ haslock woo’. 

To make a coat to Johnny o’t; 

For Johnny is my only jo, 

1 lo’e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t; 

The warpin' o’t, the winniu’ o’t; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin’ o’t. 

For though his locks be lyart gray. 
And though his brow be bei i 
aboon; 

Yet I hae seen him on a day. 

The pride of a’ the parishen. 




THE FAREWELL. 


331 


The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, 
The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin’ o’t. 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 

Tune— “ Maggie Lauder." 

I MARRIED with a scolding wife 
The fourteenth of November; 

She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 

Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended; 

But, to my comfort be it spoke. 
Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years 
A man and wife together; 

At length from me her course she 
steer’d, 

And gone I know not whither: 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter. 

Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestow’d well, 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell. 

The deil would ne’er abide her. 

I rather think she is aloft. 

And imitating thunder; 

For why,—methinksi hear her voice 
Tearing the clouds asunder. 

THENIEL MENZIE’S BONNIE 
MARY. 

Tune— “ The Ruffian's rant." 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry; 

As day was dawin in the sky 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel IMenzie’s bonnie Mary, 
Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae 
white. 

Her halfet locks as brown’s a berry, 
An’ aye they dimpled wi’ a smile 
The rosy cheeks o’ bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary, 
Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary; 


Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary. 

We lap an’ danced the lee-lang day, 
Till piper lads were wae an’ weary. 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay 
For kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary, 
Theniel Menzie’s bonnie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin’ Theniel’s bonnie Mary. 

THE FAREWELL. 

Tune —“ It was a' for our rightfu' King.'^ 

It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, 

We left fair Scotland’s strand; 

It was a’ for our rightfu’ King 
We e’er saw Irish land. 

My dear; 

We e’er saw Irish land. 

Now a’ is done that men can do. 

And a’ is done in vain; 

My love and native land farewell. 
For I maun cross the main. 

My dear; 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turn’d him right and roundabout 
Upon the Irish shore; 

And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 
With adieu for evermore. 

My dear; 

With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns. 
The sailor frae the main; 

But I hae parted frae my love, 
Never to meet again, 

My dear; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a’ folk bound to sleep; 

I think on him that’s far awa’, 

The lee-lang night, and weep. 

My dear; 

The lee-lang night, and weep. 

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE 
FACE. 

Tune— “ The Maid's Complaint." 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face. 

Nor shape that I admire, 

18—Burns—O 




332 


MY HEART WAS ANCE. 


Although thy beauty and thy grace 
Might weel awake desire. 

Something, in ilka part o’ thee, 

To praise, to love, I find; 

But dear as is thy form to me. 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen’rous wish I hae. 

Nor stronger in my breast, 

Than if I canna mak thee sae. 

At least to see thee blest. 

Content am I, if Heaven shall give 
But happiness to thee; 

And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live. 

For thee I’d bear to die. 

JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Tune—“J amie, come try me.'''' 
CHORUS. 

Jamie, eome try me, 

Jamie, eome try me; 

If thou would win my love; 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should ask my love. 

Could I deny thee ? 

If thou would win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love, 

Wha could espy thee ? 

If thou wad be my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

Jamie, come try me, etc. 

LANDLADY, COUNT THE 
LAWIN. 

Tune—“H ey tutti., taiti.'''' 

Landlady, count the lawin. 

The day is near the dawin; 

Ye’re a’ blind drunk, boys. 

And I’m but jolly fou. 

Hey tutti, taiti. 

How tutti, taiti— 

Wha’s fou now V 

Cog an’ ye were aye fou. 

Cog an’ ye were aye fou, 

I wad sit and sing to you 

If ye were aye fou. 

Weel may ye a’ be! 

Ill may we never see! 

God bless the King, boys. 


And the companie! 

Hey tutti, taiti. 

How tutti, taiti— 

Wha’s fou now ? 

MY LOVE SHE’S BUT A 
LASSIE YET. 

Tune-“ Lady BadinscotWs reel.'' 

My love she’s but a lassie yet; 

My love she’s but a lassie yet; 

We’ll let her stand a year or twa. 
She’ll no be half sae saucy yet. 

I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, O; 
Tv^'lia gets her needs na say she’s 
woo’d. 

But he may say he’s bought her, 01 

Come, drap o’ the best o’t yet; 

Come, draw a drop o’ the best o’t 
yet, 

Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 
But here I never miss’d it yet. 
We’re a’ dry wi’ drinking o’t. 

We’re a' dry wi’ drinking o’t; 

The minister kiss’d the fiddler’s wife. 
An’ could na preach for thinkin’ 
o’t. 

MY HEART WAS ANCE. 

Tune—“ To the weavers gin ye go." 

My heart was ance as blithe and free 
As simmer days were lang. 

But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair 
maids. 

To the weavers gin ye go; 

I rede you right gang ne’er at 
night 

To the weavers gin ye go. 

My mither sent me to the town, 

To warp a plaiden wab; 

But the weary, weary warpin o’t 
Has gart me sigh and sab. 

A bonnie westlin weaver lad 
Sat working at his loom; 

He took my heart as wi’ a net, 

In every knot and thrum. 

I sat beside my warpin-wheel. 

And ay 1 ca’d it roun’; 




THE CAPTAIN’S LADY. 


333 


But every shot and every knock, 

My heart it gae a stoun. 

The moon was sinking in the west 
Wi’ visage pale and wan, 

As my bonnie westlin weaver lad 
Convoy’d me through the glen. 

But what was said, or what was done’ 
Shame fa’ me gin I tell; 

But oh! I fear the kintra soon 
Will ken as weel’s mysel. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids. 
To the weavers gin ye go; 

I rede you right gang ne’er at night. 
To the weavers gin ye go. 

LOVELY DAVIES. 

Tune— “ Miss Muir." 

O now shall I, unskilfu’, try 
The poet’s occupation. 

The tunefu’ powers, in happy hours, 
That whisper inspiration? 

Even they maun dare an effort mair, 
Than aught they ever gave us, 

Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o’ lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 
Like Phoebus in the morning. 
When past the shower, and ev’ry 
flower 

The garden is adorning. 

As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s 
shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun 
part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 

Her smile’s a gift, frae’boon the lift, 
That maks us mair than princes; 
A scepter’d hand, a King’s command, 
Is in her darting glancp; 

The man in arms, ’gainst female 
charms. 

Even he her willing slave is; 

He hugs his chain, and owns the 
reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My Muse to dream of such a theme, 
Her feeble powers surrender; 


The eagle’s gaze alone surveys 
The sun’s meridian splendor; 

I wad in vain essay the strain, 

The deed too daring brave is; 

I’ll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o’ lovely Davies. 

KENMURE’S ON AND AW A. 

Tune.— ‘ O Kenmure^s on andawa. Willie." 
O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie! 

O Kenmure’s on and awa! 

And Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest 
lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie! 

Success to Kenmure’s band; 
There’s no a heart that fears a Whig 
That rides by Kenmure’s hand. 

Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, 
Willie! 

Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine; 
There ne’er was a coward o’ Ken¬ 
mure’s blude. 

Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line. 

O Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie! 

O Kenmure’s lads are men; 

Their hearts and swords are metal 
true— 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie! 

They’ll live or die wi’ fame; 

But soon, wi’ sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure’s lord come hame. 

Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie! 

V Here’s him that’s far awa; 

And here’s the flower that I love best 
The rose that’s like the snaw i 

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY. 

Tune —“ 0 mount and go." 
CHORUS. 

O mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready: 

O mount and go. 

And be the Captain’s Lady. 

When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle. 

Thou shalt sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 




334 


MERRY HAE I BEEN, TEETHIN’ A HECKLE. 


When the vanquish’d foe 
Sues for peace and quiet. 

To the shades we’ll go, 

And in love enjoy it. 

O mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready, 
O mount and go. 

And be the Captain’s Lady. 

LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune—“ Cragtown's growing.'^ 

O, Lady Mary Ann 
Looks o’er the castle wa’, 

She saw three bonnie boys 
Playing at the ba’; 

The youngest he was 
The flower amang them a’; 

My bonnie laddie’s young, 

But he’s growin’ yet. 

O father! O father! 

An’ ye think it flt. 

We’ll send him a year 
To the college yet: 

We’ll sew a green ribbon 
Round about his hat. 

And that will let them kea 
He’s to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i’ the dew, 

Sweet was its smell, 

Bonnie was its hue! 

And the langer it blossom’d 
The sweeter it grew; 

For the lily in the bud 
Will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Cochran 
Was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonnie and bloomin’ 

And straught was its make: 
The sun took delight 
To shine for its sake, 

And It will be the brag 
O’ the forest yet. 


The simmer is gane 

Whenthe leavesthey were green. 
And the days are awa 
That we hae seen; 

But far better days 
1 trust will come again, 

For my bonnie laddie’s young, 

But he’s growin’ yet. 

THE HIGHAND WIDOW’S 
LAMENT. 

On! I am come to the low countrie, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Without a penny in my purse. 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hills, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Nae woman in the country wide 
Sae happy was as me. 

For then I had a score o’ kye, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Feeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o’ yowes 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 
And casting woo’ to me. 

I was the happiest of the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine; 

For Donald was the bra west lad. 
And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free; 

My Donald’s arm was wanted then. 
For Scotland and for me. 

Their waefu’ fate what need I tell. 
Right to the wrang did yield: 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden’s field. 

Oh! I am come to the low countrie, 
Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 

Nae woman in the world wide, 

Sae wretched now as me. 


MERRY HAE 1 BEEN TEETHIN’ A HECKLE. 

Tune—“L ord Breadalbane's March." 

O MERRY hae I been teethin’ a heckle, 

And merry hae 1 been shapin’ a spoon; 

O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 

And kissin’ my Katie when a’ was done. 





o mally’s meek, mally’s sweet. 


335 


O a’ the lang clay I ca’ at my hammer, 

An’ a’ the lang day I whistle and sing, 

A’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer. 

An’ a’ the lang night as happy’s a King. 


Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

O’ marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: 

Bless’d be the hour she cool’d in her linnens. 

And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An’ come to my arms, and kiss me again! 
Drunken or sober, here’s to thee, Katie I 
And bless’d be the day I did it again. 


RATTLIN’, ROARIN’ WILLIE. 

Tune—“ Rattlin\ roarin' Willie." 

O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 

An’ for to sell his fiddle. 

An’ buy some other ware; 

But parting wi’ his fiddle. 

The saut tear blin’t hisee; 

And rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, 

Ye’re welcome hame to me ! 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine; 


O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o’ wine ! 

If I should sell my fiddle. 

The warl’ would think I was mad; 
For mony a rantin’ day 
My fiddle and I hae had. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben— 

Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie 
Was sitting at yon board en’, 
Sitting at yon board en’, 

And amang guid companie; 
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie, 

Ye’re welcome hame to me I 


O MALLY’S MEEK, MALLY’S SWEET. 

O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, 

Mally’s modest and cliscreet, 

Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, 

Mally’s every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chanced to meet; 

But O the road was very hard 
For that fair maiden’s tender feet. 


It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken shoon. 

And ’twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare. 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 

O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, 

Mally’s modest and discreet, 

Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, 

Mally’s every way complete. 





336 


THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 


SAE FAR AWA. 

Tune— “ Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 

O SAD and heavy should 1 part, 

But for her sake sae far awa; 
Unknowing what my way may 
thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 

Thou that of a’ things Maker art, 
That form’d this Fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start 
At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa: 

And nocht can heal my bosom’s 
smart. 

While, oh! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but hers, sae far awa; 

But fairer never touch’d a heart 
Than hers, the Fair sae far awa. 


O STEER PIER UP 

Tune—"O steer her up., and hand her 
gaun." 

O STEER her up, and baud hei 
gaun— 

Her mother’s at the mill, jo; 

And gin she winna take a man. 

E’en let her take her will, jo; 
First shore her wi’ a kindly kiss. 
And ca’ another gill, jo. 

And gin she take the thing amiss. 
E’en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, and be na blate. 

An’ gin she tak it ill, jo. 

Then lea’e the lassie till her fate, 
And time nae langer spill, jo: 
Ne’er break your heart for ae re* 
bute. 

But think upon it still, jo; 

Then gin the lassie winna do’t, 

Ye’ll fin’ anither will, jo. 


O, WHAR DID YE GET. 

Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." 

O, WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock? 

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see ? 

I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie. 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 

O gin I saw the laddie that gae me’t! 

Aft has he doudled me on his knee; 

May Heaven protect my bonnie Scotch laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me ? 

My blessin’s upon thy sweet w^ee lippie. 

My blessin’s‘upon thy bonnie e’e brie ! 

Thy smiles are sae like my blithe sodger laddie, 

Thou’s aye the dearer and dearer to me ! 

But I’ll big a bower on yon bonnie banks. 

Where Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear; 

And I’ll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. ^ 


THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 

Tune—" Killiecrankie." 


O WHA will to Saint Stephen’s house, 
To do our errands there, man ? 

O wha will to Saint Stephen’s 
house, 

O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man ? 

Or will we send a man-o’-law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 

Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’ 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 


Come, will ye court a noble lord. 

Or buy a score o’ lairds, man ? 

For worth and honor pawn their 
word. 

Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, 
man ? 

Ane gies them coin, ane gies them, 
wine 

Anither gies them clatter; 





THE ELUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 337 


Anbank, wha guess’d the ladies’ taste, 
He gies a Fete Champetre. 

When Love and Beauty heard the 
news, 

The gay green-woods amang, man; 
Where gathering flowers and busk¬ 
ing bowers, 

They heard the blackbird’s sang, 
man; 

A vow, they seal’d it with a kiss 
Sir Politics to fetter. 

As theirs alone, the patent-bliss. 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome 
wing. 

O’er hill and dale she flew, man ; 
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring. 
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, 
man. 

She summon’d every social sprite. 
That sports by wood or water. 

On th’ bonnie banks of Ayr to meet. 
And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi’ his boisterous 
crew. 

Were bound to stakes like kye, 
man; 

And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’, 
Clamb up the starry sky, man, 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams. 
Or down the current shatter; 

The western breeze steals through 
the trees. 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats! 

What sparklin jewels glance, man I 
To Harmony’s enchanting notes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man! 


The echoing wood, the winding flood, 
Like Paradise did glitter. 

When angels met, at Adam’s yett. 
To hold their Fete Champetre 

When Politics came there, to mix 
And make his ether-stane, man 1 
He circled round the magic ground. 
But entrance found he nane, man: 
He blush’d for shame, he quat his 
name, 

Forswore it, every letter, 

Wi’ humble prayer to join and share 
This festive Fete Champetre. 

SIMMER’S A PLEASANT 
TIME. 

Tune—“ Ay ivaukin, O.” 
Simmer’s a pleasant time, 

Flow’rs of ev’ry color: 

The water rins o’er the heugh. 
And I long for my true lover. 

Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie; 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream 
When I wauk I’m eerie; 

Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A’ the lave are sleeping; 

1 think on my bonnie lad 
And I bleer my een with greetin’. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie; 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dearie. 


THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 

Tune—“ To daunton me." 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw. 

The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 

The frost may freeze the deepest sea; 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 

Wi’ his fause heart and flatt’ring tongue. 

That is the thing you ne’er shall see; 

For an auld man shall never daunton me. 




338 


THE COOPER O’ CUDDIE. 


For a’ his meal and a’ his maut, 

For a’ his fresh beef and his saut, 

For a’ his gold and white monie, 

An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 

His gear may buy him glens and knowes; 

But me he shall not buy nor fee, 

For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 

Wi’ his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer’d ee- 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 

Wi’ his fause heart and flatt’ring tongue. 
That is the thing you ne’er shall see; 

For an auld man shall never daunton me. 


THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

Tune.—“ If thou'lt play me fair play." 

The bonniest lad that e’er I saw, 
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
Wore a plaid and was fu’ braw, 
Bonnie Highland laddie. 

On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
His royal heart was firm and true, 
Bonnie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 
Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie. 

And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar, 
Bonnie Lawland lassie. 

Glory, Honor, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie. 

For Freedom and my King to fight, 
Bonnie Lawland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall 
take 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thy manly courage 
shake; 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

Go. for yoursel procure renown, 
Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
And for your lawful King his crown, 
Bonnie Highland laddie! 


THE COOPER O’ CUDDIE. 

Tune—“P a6 at the bowster." 

The cooper o’ Cuddie cam here awa, 

And ca’d the girrs out owre us a’— 

And our gude-wife has gotten a ca’ 
That anger’d the silly gude-man, O. 

I We’ll hide the cooper behind the 
door; 

Behind the door, behind the door; 

We’ll hide the cooper behind the 
door. 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 

He sought them out, he sought them 
in, 

Wi’, Deil hae her! and, Deil hae him I 

But the body was sae doited and blin’. 
He wist na where he was gaun, O. 

They cooper’d at e’en, they cooper’d 
at morn. 

Till our gude-man has gotten the 
scorn; 

On ilka brow she’s planted a horn, 
And swears that they shall stan’, O. 

We’ll hide the cooper behind the 
door. 

Behind the door, behind the door; 

We’ll hide the cooper behind the 
door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 





THE TITHER MORN. 


339 


NITHDALE’S WELCOME HAME. 


The noble Maxwells and their powers 
Are coming o’er the border, 

And they’ll gae bigg Terreagle’s 
towers, 

An’ set them a’ in order, 

And they declare Terreagle’s fair, 
For their abode they choose it; 
There’s no a heart in a’ the land, 
But’s lighter at the news o’t. 


Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, 
And angry tempests gather; 

The happy hour may soon be near 
That brings us pleasant weather 
The weary night o’ care and grief 
May hae a joyful morrow; 

So dawning day has brought re¬ 
lief— 

Fareweel our night o’ sorrow I 


THE TAILOR. 

Tune — ''•The Tailor fell thro"' the bed, thimbles an'o' 

The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’. 

The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’; 

The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma’, 
The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles an’ a’. 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill; 

The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 

She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 

Gie me the groat again, canny young man; 

Gie me the gr at again, canny young man; 

The day it is Hiort, and the night it is lang, 

The dearest sider diat ever I wan! 

There’s somebody weary wi lying h^r lane; 

There’s somebody w^ary wi’ lying her lane; 

There’s some t'lat are dow^e, I trow wad be fain 
To see the bit taiFr come skippin’ again. 


THE TITHER MORN. 


The tither morn. 

When I forlorn, 

Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, 

I’d see my Jo, 

Beside me, gain the gloaming. 

But he sae trig. 

Lap o’er the rig. 

And dawtingly did cheer me, 

When I, what reck. 

Did least expec’. 

To see my lad so near me. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, [me ; 

Cock’d sprush when first he clasp’d 
And I, I wat, 

Wi’ fainness grat. 

While in his grips he press’d me. 


Deil tak’ the war! 

I late and air, 

Hae wish since Jock departed; 
But now as glad 
I’m wi’ my lad. 

As short syne broken-hearted. 

Fu’ ajt at e’en 
Wi dancing keen. 

When a’ were blithe and merry 
I car’d na by, 

Sae sad was I 
In absence o’ my dearie. 

But, praise be blest. 

My mind’s at rest, 

I’m happy wi’ my Johnny; 

At kirk and fair, 

I'se aye be there. 

And be as canty’s ony. 





340 


THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 


THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Tune—“ braes." 

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

And he had a wife was the plague o’ his days; 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme). 

He met wi’ the Devil; says, “ How do you fen ? ” 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

“I’ve got a bad wife, sir; that’s a’ my complaint " 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

“For, saving your presence, to her ye’re a saint; ” 
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

“ It’s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

“But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have; ” 
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

“ O welcome, most kindly,” the blithe carle said 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

“ But if ye can match her, ye’re waur nor ye’re ca’d; ” 
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme). 

And like a poor pedler, he’s carried his pack; 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

He’s carried her hame to his ain hallan-door 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

Syne bad her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e; 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty the pick o’ his band 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand: 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

The carlin gaed thro’ them like ony wud bear 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

Whae’er she gat hands on came near her nae mair; 
And the thyme it is wither’d and rue is in prime. 

A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa’ 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

“O, help, master, help, or she’ll ruin us a’; 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 


341 


The Devil he swore by the edge o’ his knife 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme), 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife; 

And the thyme it is wither’d and rue is in prime. 

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme). 

He was not in wedlock, thank heav’n but in hell; 
And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

Then Satan has travel’d again wi’ his pack 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi’ thyme). 

And to her auld husband he’s carried her back; 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 

“I hae been a Devil the feck o’ my life,” 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi‘ thyme), 

“ But ne’er was in hell, till I met wi’ a wife; ” 

And the thyme it is wither’d, and rue is in prime. 


THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune—“ J[)wncan Davison." 

There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, 

And she held o’er the moors to spin; 

There was a lad that follow’d her. 

They ca’d him Duncan Davison. 

The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 
Her favor Duncan could na win; 

For wi’ the rock she wad him knock. 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 

As o’er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 

Upon the banks they eased their shanks. 
And aye she set the wheel between : 

But Duncan swore a haly aith. 

That Meg should be a bride the morn; 

Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith, 

And flung them a’ out o’er the burn. 

We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like King and Queen, 

Sae blithe and merry we will be 
When ye set by the wheel at e’en. 

A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may fight and no be slain; 

A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 

And aye be welcome back again. 




342 


THE CARLES OF DYSART. 


THE WEARY FUND O’ TOW. 

Tune— “ The weary pund o’ tow." 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 
The weary pund o’ tow; 

I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o’ lint 
As gude as e’er did grow ; 

And a’ that she has made o’ that, 

Is ae poor pund o’ tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyond the ingle low, 

And aye she took the tither souk 
To drouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, 
Gae spin your tap o’ tow! 

She took the rock, and wi’ a knock 
She brak it o’er my pow. 

At last her feet —1 sang to see’t— 
Gaed foremost o’er the knowe; 

And or I wad anither jad. 

I’ll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund, the weary 
pund. 

The weary pound o’ tow! 

I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 

THE PLOUGHMAN, 

Tune— “ Up loV the Ploughman." 

The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad. 
His mind is ever true, jo, 

His garters knit below his knee. 

His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Then up wi’t a’, my ploughman lad. 
And hey. my merry ploughman; 

Of a’ the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at 
e’en. 

He’s ajjfen wat and weary; 

Cast off ^le wat, put on the dry. 
And gae to bed, my Dearie! 

Up wi’t a’, etc. 


I will wash my ploughman’s hose. 
And I will dress his o’erlay; 

I will mak my ploughman’s bed. 
And cheer him late and early. 

Up wi’t a’, etc. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 

1 hae been at Saint Johnston, 

The bonniest sight that e’er 1 saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancia 
Up wi’t a’, etc. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs. 
And siller buckles glancin’; 

A gude blue bannet on his head. 
And O, but he was handsome! 

Up wi’t a’, etc. 

Commend me to the barn-yard. 

And the corn-mou’, man; 

I never gat my coggie fou 
Till 1 met wi’ the ploughman. 

U p wi’t a’, etc. 


THE CARLES OF DYSART. 

Tune—“ iJe?/, ca’ thro'." 

Up wi’ the carles of Dysart, 

And the lads o’ Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o’ Largo, 

And the lasses o’ Leven. 

Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’. 

For we hae mickle ado; 
Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’. 

For we hae mickle ado. 

We hae tales to tell. 

And we hae sangs to sing. 

We hae pennies to spend, 

And we hae pints to bring. 

We’ll live a’ our days, 

And them that come behin. 

Let them do the like, 

And spend the gear they win. 
Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’. 
For we hae mickle ado. 
Hey, ca thro’, ca’ thro’, 
F^'or we hae mickle ado. 




COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 


343 


WEARY FA’ YOU, DUNCAN 
GRAY. 

Tune— “IHtncan, Gray." 

Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o’t! 

Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— 
Ha, ha, the girdin o’t! 

When a’ the lave gae to their play. 
Then I maun sit the lee-lang day. 
And jog the cradle wi’ my tae, 

And a’ for the girdin o’t. 

Bonnie was the Lammas moon— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o’t! 

Glowrin’ a’ the hills aboon— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o’t! 

Tlie girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon, 
Ah! Duncan, ye’re an unco loon— 
Wae on the bad girdin’ o’t! 

But, Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith, 
Pla, ha, the girdin o’t! 

Ise bless you wi’ my hindmost 
breath— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o’t! 

Duncan, gin ye’ll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the 
skaith. 

And clout the bad girdin o’t. 

MY HOGGIE. 

Tune— “ What will I do gin my Hoggie 
die f ” 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie! 

My only beast, I had na mae. 

And vow but I was vogie! 

The lee-lang night we watch’d the 
fauld. 

Me and my faithfu’ doggie; 

We heard not but the roaring linn, 
Amang the braes sae scroggie; 

But the howlet cry’d frae the castle 
wa’, 

The blitter frae the boggie. 

The tod reply’d upon the hill, 

I trembled for my Hoggie. 


When day did daw, and cocks did 
craw. 

The morning it was foggie; 

An unco tyke lap o’er the dyke, 

And maist has kill’d my Hoggie. 

WHERE HAE YE BEEN. 

Tune —“ Killiecrankie." 

Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Where hae ye been saebrankie, O? 
O, where hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O. 

An’ ye hae been whare I hae been. 
Ye had na been so cantie, O; 

An’ ye had seen what I had seen. 

On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O; 
But I met the Devil an’ Dundee, 

On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pictur fell in a furr. 

An’ Clavers got a clankie, O; 

Or I had fed an Athole gled. 

On the braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tune —“ Cock up your beaver." 

When first my brave Johnnie lad, 
Came to this town. 

He had a blue bonnet 
That wanted the crown; 

But now he has gotten 
A hat and a feather,— 

Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 

Cock up your beaver! 

Cock up your beaver. 

And cock it fu’ sprush, 

We’ll over the border 
And gie them a brush; 

There’s somebody there 
We'll teach better behavior— 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 

Cock up your beaver 1 

THE HE^ON BALLADS. 

FIRST BALLAD. 

Whom will you send to London town, 
To Parliament and a’ that? 

Or wha in a’ the country round 
The best deserves to fa’ that ? 






344 


THE ELECTION. 


For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Thro’ Galloway and a’ that! 
Where is the laird or belted 
knight 

That best deserves to fa’ that? 

Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett, 
And wha is’t never saw that? 

Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree meets 
And has a doubt of a’ that ? 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! 
The independent patriot. 

The honest man, an’ a’ that, 

Tho’ wit and worth in either sex, 

St. Mary’s Isle can shaw that; 

Wr dukes an’ lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa’ that. 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk. 
And is’t against the law that? 

For why, a lord may be a gouk, 

Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that. 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi’ ribbon, star, an’ a’ that. 

A beardless boy comes o’er the hills, 
Wi’ uncle’s purse an’ a’ that; 

But we’ll hae ane frae ’mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an’ a’ that. 

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, 

Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! 
For we’re not to be bought an’ 
sold 

Like naigs,an’nowt,an’ a’ that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 
Kerroughtree’s laird, an’ a’ that. 
Our representative to be. 

For weel he’s wortlxy a’ that. 

For a’ that, an' a’ that, 

Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! 
A House of Commons such as 
he. 

They would be blest that saw 
that. 


THE ELECTION. 

SECOND BALLAD, 

Fy, let US a’ to Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be bickerin’ there. 
For Murray’s light-horse are to 
muster. 

And, O, how the heroes will swear: 
An’ there will be Murray commander. 
And Gordon the battle to win; 
Like brothers they’ll stand by each 
other, 

Sae knit in alliance an’ kin. 

And there will be black-lippet John 
nie. 

The tongue o’ the trump to them 
a’; 

And he gat na hell for his haddin’ 
The Deil gets na justice ava’; 

An’ there will be Kempleton’s birkie, 
A boy no sae black at the bane. 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune. 
We’ll e’en let the subject alane. 

An’ there will be Wigton’s new sher¬ 
iff. 

Dame Justice fu’ brawlie has sped. 
She’s gotten the heart of a Bushby, 
But, Lord, what’s become o’ the 
head ? 

An’ there will be Cardoness, Esquire, 
Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes; 

A wight that will weather damna¬ 
tion. 

For the Devil the prey will despise. 

An’there will be Douglasses doughty, 
New christening towns far and 
near! 

Abjuring their democrat doings. 

By kissing the — o’ a peer; 

An’ there will be Kenmure sae gen’r- 
ous 

Whose honor is proof to the storm. 
To save them from stark reprobation 
He lent them his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 
The body e’en let him escape! 
He’d venture the gallows for siller. 
An’ twere na the cost o’ the rape. 





AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 


345 


An’ where is our King’s lord lieuten¬ 
ant. 

Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return ? 

The billie is gettin’ his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen’s the morn. 

An’ there will be lads o’ the gospel, 
Muirhead wha’s as good as he’s 
true; 

An’ there will be Buittle’s apostles, 
Wha’s more o’ the black than the 
blue; 

An’ there will be folk from St. 
Mary’s, 

A house o’ great merit and note. 

The deil ane but honors them 
highly,— 

The deil ane will gie them his vote! 

An’ there will be wealthy young 
liichard. 

Dame Fortune should hing by the 
neck; 

For prodigal, thriftless bestowing— 
His merit had won him respect; 

An’ there will be rich brother nabobs. 
Though nabobs, yet men of the 
first; 

An’ there will be Collieston's 
whiskers. 

An’ Quintin, o’ lads not the worst. 

An’ there will be stamp-office 
Johnnie, 

Tak tent how ye purchase a dram; 

An’ there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
An’ there will be gleg Colonel 
Tam; [tree, 

An’ there will be trusty Kerrough- 
Whose honor was ever his law. 

If the virtues were pack’d in a parcel. 
His worth might be sample for a’. 

An’ can we forget the auld major, 
Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the 
Greys; 

Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other, 
Him only ’tis justice to praise. 

An’ there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
And also Barskimming’s gude 
kniglit; 

An’ there will be roarin’ Birtwhistle, 


■ Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 
An’ there, frae the Niddisdale’s 
borders, [droves; 

Will mingle the Maxwells in 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an’ 
Walie, [loaves; 

That griens for the fishes an’ 
An’ there will be Logan MacDowall, 
Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there. 
An’ also the wild Scot o’ Galloway, 
Sodgerin’, gunpowder Blair. 

Then hey the chaste interest o’ 
Broughton, 

An’ hey for the blessings ’twill 
bring 1 [mons, 

It may send Balmaghie to the Com- 
In Sodom ’twould make him a 
King; 

An’ hey for the sanctified Murray, 
Our land who wi’ chapels has 
stor’d; 

He founder’d his horse among harlots. 
But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

THIRD BALLAD. (MAY, 1796.) 

Wha will buy my troggin. 

Fine election ware; 

Broken trade o' Broughton, 

A’ in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o’ Dee; 

Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

There’s a noble Earl’s 
Fame and high renown. 

For an auld sang— 

It’s thought the gudes were 
stown 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here’s the worth o’ Broughton 
In a needle’s ee; 

Here’s a reputation 
Tint by Balmaghie. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here’s an honest conscience 
Might a prince adorn ; 

Frae the downs o’ Tinwald— 

So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 




346 


JOHN bushby’s lamentation. 


Here’s its stuff and lining, 
Cardoness’ head; 

Fine for a sodger 
A’ the wale o’ lead. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here’s a little wadset 
Buittle’s scrap o’ truth, 

Pawn’d in a gin-shop 
Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here’s armorial bearings 
Frae the manse o’ Urr; 

The crest, an auld crab-apple 
Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here is Satan’s pictures. 

Like a bizzard gled. 

Pouncing poor Redcastle 
Sprawlin’ as a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here’s the worth and wisdom 
Collieston can boast; 

By a thievish midge 
They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Here is Murray’s fragments 
O’ the ten commands; 

Gifted by black Jock 
To gut them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

Saw ye e’er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye’re slack, 

Hornie’s turnin’ chapman,— 

He’ll buy a’ the pack. 

Buy braw troggin, etc. 

JOHN BUSHBY’S LAMEN¬ 
TATION. 

Tune—“ The Babes in the Wood." 

'Twas in the seventeen hunder year 

O’ grace and ninety-five. 

That year I was the wae’est man 

O’ ony man alive. 

In March the three-and-twentieth 

morn. 

The sun raise clear and bright; 

But oh 1 was a waefu’ man 

Ere to-fa’ o’ the night. 


' Yerl Galloway langdid rule this land, 
Wi’ equal right and fame. 

And thereto was his kinsman join’d 
The Murray’s noble name. 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land. 
Made me the j udge o’ strife; 

But now Yerl Galloway’s scepter’s 
broke. 

And eke my hangman’s knife. 

’Twas by the banks o’ bonnie Cree, 
Beside Kirkcudbright’s towers. 
The Stewart and the Murray there 
Did muster a’ their powers. 

The Murray, on the auld gray yaud, 
Wi’ winged spurs did ride, 

That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale 
rade. 

He staw upon Nidside. 

An' there had na been the yerl him- 
sel’, 

O there had been nae play; 

But Garlics was to Loudon gane, 
And sae the kye might stray. 

And there was Balmaghie, 1 ween. 

In front rank he wad shine; 

But Balmaghie had better been 
Drinking Madeira wine. 

Frae the Glenkens came to our aid, 
A chief o’ doughty deed; 

In case that worth should wanted be, 
O’ Kenmure we had need. 

And by our banners march’d Muir- 
head, 

And Buittle was na slack; 

Whase haly priesthood nane can 
stain. 

For wha can dye the black ? 

And there sae grave Squire Cardon- 
ness. 

Look’d on till a’ was done; 

Sae, in the tower of Cardonness, 

A how let sits at noon. 

And there led I a Bushby clan. 

My gamesome billie Will; 

And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 

1 My footsteps follow’d still. 




YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 


347 


The Douglas and the Heron’s name 
We set naught to their score; 

The Douglas and the Heron’s name 
Had felt our weight before. 

But Douglasses o’ weight had we, 
The pair o' lusty lairds, 

For building cot-houses sae famed, 
And christening kail-yards. 


And there Redcastle drew his sword 
That ne’er was stained wi’ gore. 
Save on a wanderer lame and blind, 
To drive him frae his door. 

And last came creeping Collieston, 
Was mair in fear than wrath; 

Ae knave was constant in his mind, 
To keep that knave frae scaith. 


YE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

Tune—“ Shawnboy.'^ 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation; 

Y’our thrifty old mother has scarce such another 
To sit in that honor’d station. 

I’ve little to say, but only to pray. 

As praying’s the ton of your fashion; 

A prayer from the Muse you w'ell may excuse, 

’Tis seldom her favorite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind and the tide, 
Who marked each element’s border; 

AVho formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order; 

Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 
Or withered envy ne’er enter; 

May secrecy round be the mystical bound. 

And brotherly love be the center! 

YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Tune— “ Ye Jacobites by name.'''' 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 

Y"e Jacobites by name, give an ear; 

Ye Jacobites by name, 

Your fautes I will proclaim. 

Your doctrines I maun blame— 

You shall hear. 

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law ? 

What is right and what is wrang ? 

A short sword and a lang, 

A weak arm, and a strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, fam’d afar, fam’d afar. 

What makes heroic strife fam’d afar ? 

What makes heroic strife 
To whet th’ assassin’s knife, 

Or hunt a parent’s life 
Wi’ bludie war. 




348 


THE COLLIER LADDIE. 


Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone, in the state ; 

Then let your schemes alone, 

Adore the rising sun. 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 


SONG—AH, CHLORIS. 

Tune—“ Major Graham.'" 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, 
That thou of love wilt hear; 

If from the lover thou maun flee, 
Yet let the friend be dear. 

Altho’ I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell; 

My passion I will ne’er declare. 

I’ll say, I wish thee well. 

Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art. 
And a’ my nightly dream. 

I’ll hide the struggle in my heart. 
And say it is esteem. 

WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 

Whan I sleep I dream. 

Whan I wauk I’m eerie. 

Sleep I canna get. 

For thinkin’ o’ my dearie.' 

Lanely night comes on, 

A’ the house are sleeping, 

I think on the bonnie lad 
That has my heart a keeping. 

Ay waukin O, waukin ay and 
wearie. 

Sleep I canna get, for thinkin’ o’ 
my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A’ the house are sleeping, 

I think on my bonnie lad. 

An’ I bleer my een wi’ greetin’! 
Ay waukin, etc. 

KATHARINE JAFFRAY. 
There liv’d a lass in yonder dale. 
And down in yonder glen, O; 

And Katharine Jaff ray was her name, 
Weel known to many men, O. 

Out came the Lord of Lauderdale, 
Out frae the south countrie, O, 


All for to court this pretty maid, 

Her bridegroom for to be, O. 

He’s tell’d her father and mother 
baith. 

As I hear sindry say, O; 

But he has na’ tell’d the lass herseV 
Till on her wedding day, O. 

Then came the Laird o’ Lochinton 
Out frae the English border. 

All for to court this pretty maid. 

All mounted in good order. 

THE COLLIER LADDIE. 

O WHARE live ye my bonnie lass, 
And tell me how they ca’ ye ? 

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow my Collier laddie. 

O see ye not yon hills and dales 
The sun shines on sae brawly: 
They a’ are mine, and they shall be 
thine. 

If ye’ll leave your Collier laddie. 

And ye shall gang in rich attire, 
Weel buskit up fu’ gaudy; 

And ane to wait at every hand, 

If ye’ll leave your Collier laddie. 

Tho’ ye had a’ the sun shines on, 
And the earth conceals sae lowly; 
I would turn my back on you and it 
a’. 

And embrace my Collier laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day, 
And spend it at night full brawlie; 
I can mak my bed in the Collier’s 
neuk, 

A nd lie down wi’ my Collier laddie, 

Loove for loove is the bargain for me. 
Tho’ the wee cot-house should baud 
me; 




THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 


349 


And the warld before me to win my 
bread, 

And fare fa’ my Collier laddie. 

WHEN I THINK ON THE 
HAPPY DAYS. 

Wecen I think on the happy days 
I spent wi’ you, my dearie; 

And now what lands between us lie. 

How can I be but eerie! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
As ye were wae and weary! 

It was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi’ my dearie. 

YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A’ 

THE PLAIN. 

Tune —“ The Carlin o' the Glen." 

Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain, 

Sae gallant and sae gay a swain; 

THE HEATHER 
The heather was blooming. 

Our lads gaed a hunting, ae 
O’er moors and o’er mosses and'monie a glen, 

At length they discover’d a bonnie moor-hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men; 

» I red you beware at the hunting, young men; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells. 
Her colors betray’d her on yon mossy fells; 

Her plumage out-lustered the pride o the spring, 

And O! as she wanton’d gay on the wing. 

I red, etc. 

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep’d o’er the hill. 

In spite at her plumage he tried his skill: 

He level’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— 

His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. 
I red, etc. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, 

The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; 

But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 

Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. 

I red, etc. 


Tho’ a’ our lasses he did rove. 

And reign’d resistless King of 
Love; 

But now wi’ sighs and starting 
tears. 

He strays amang the woods and 
briers; 

Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves: 

I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And changed with every moon my 
love: 

I little thought the time was near. 
Repentance I should buy sae dear; 
The slighted maids my torment 
see. 

And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu’ fair. 
Forbids me e’er to see her mair I 

WAS BLOOMING, 
the meadows were mawn, 
day at the dawn. 


WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear’s in my ee; 
Lang, lang, joy’s been a stranger to me: 




350 


guide’en to you, kimmer. 


Forsakea and friendless my burden I bear, 

And the sweet voice o’ pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved; 
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved ; 

But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if I were where happy I hae been; 

Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green; 
For there he is wand’ring and musing on me, 

Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis’s ee. 


EPPIE M‘NAB. 

O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab ? 

She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin’ the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. 

O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! 

O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab! 
Whate’er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab i 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot. 
And forever disowns thee, her ain Jock f^b. 

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie M‘Nab! 

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie M‘Nab ! 

As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair, 
Ahou’s broken the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab. 


AN’ O! MY EPPIE. 

An’ O ! my Eppie, 

My jewel, my Eppie! 

Wha wadna be happy 
Wi’ Eppie Adair ? 

By love, and by beauty, 

By law, and by duty, 

1 swear to be true to 
My Eppie Adair! 

An’ O! my Eppie, 

My jewel, my Eppie! 

Wha wadna be happy 
Wi’ Eppie Adair ? 

A’ pleasure exile me. 
Dishonor defile me. 

If e’er I beguile thee. 

My Eppie Adair! 

GUIDE’EN TO YOU, KIMMER. 
Guide’en to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye do ? 


Hiccup, quo’ Kimmer, 

The better that I’m fou. 

We’re a’ noddin, nid nid noddin. 

We’re a’ noddin at our house at 
hame. 

Kate sits i’ the neuk, 

Suppin’ hen broo; 

Deil tak Kate 
An’ she be a noddin too! 

We’re a noddin, etc. 

How’s a’ wi’ you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye fare ? 

A pint o’ the best o’t. 

And twa pints mair. 

We’re a’ noddin, etc. 

How’s a’ wi’ you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye thrive; 

How many bairns hae ye ? 

Quo’ Kimmer, I hae five. 

We’re a’ noddin, etc. 




THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O’ NITH. 


351 


Are they a’ Johnny's? 

Eh! atweel no: 

Twa o’ them were gotten 
When Johnny was awa. 
We’re a’ noddin, etc. 

Cats like milk, 

And dogs like broo; 

Lads like lasses weel, 

And lassies lads too. 

We’re a’ noddin, etc. 

O THAT 1 HAD NE’ER BEEN 
MARRIED. 

O THAT 1 had ne’er been married, 

I wad never had nae care; 

Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns. 
An’ they cry crowdie ever mair. 
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie. 
Three times crowdie in a day; 
Gin ye crowdie ony more, 

Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away. 

Waeful want and hunger fley me, 
Glowrin by the hallen en’; 

Sair I fecht them at the door. 

But ay I’m eerie they come ben. 
Ance crowdie, etc. 

THERE’S NEWS, LASSES. 
There’s news, lasses, news, 

Gude news I’ve to tell. 

There’s a boat fu’ o’ lads 
Come to our town to sell. 

The wean wants a cradle, 

An’ the cradle wants a cod. 
An" I’ll no gang to my bed 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo’ she, Mither, quo’ she. 
Do what ye can, 

I’ll no gang to my bed 
Till I get a man. 

The wean, etc. 

I hae as good a craft rig 
As made o’ yird and stane; 

And waly fu’ the ley-crap 
For I maun till’d again. 

The wean, etc. 

SCROGGAM. 

There was a wife wonn’d in Cock- 
pen, 

Scroggam; 


She brew’d good ale for gentlemen. 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by 
me, 

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The gudewife’s dochter fell in a 
fever, 

Scroggam; 

The priest o’ the parish fell in anither. 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by 
me, 

Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

They laid the twa’ i’ the bed the- 
gither, 

Scroggam; 

That the heat o’ the tane might cool 
the tither. 

Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND 
LAND I LOVE. 

Frae the friends and land I love. 
Driven by Fortune’s felly spite, 
Frae my best belov’d I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight; 

Never mair maun hope to find 
Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 
When remembrance wrecks the mind. 
Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear. 
Desert ilka blooming shore. 

Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 
Friendship, love, and peace, re¬ 
store ; 

Till revenge, wi’ laurel’d head, 

•Bring our banish’d hame again; 
And ilka loyal, bonnie lad 
Cross the seas and win his ain. 

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 
O’ NITH. 

ELECTION BALLAD, 1789. 

Tune—“ TJp and waur them a’.” 

The laddies by the banks o’ Nith 
Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie, 
But he’ll sair them as he sair’d the 
king— 

Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a’, Jamie, 
Up and waur them a’; 





352 


SONG. 


The Johnstons hae the guidin’ o’t 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa. 

The day he stude his country’s friend, 
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir man a blessin’ wan. 
That day the duke ne’er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country’s boast? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie; 
There’s no a callant tents the kye. 
But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie. 

To end the wark, here’s Whistlebirk, 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; 
And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue. 
And we’ll be Johnstons a’, Jamie. 

THE BONNIE LASS OP 
ALBANY. 

Tune— “ Mary's dream." 

My heart is wae, and unco wae. 

To think upon the raging sea. 
That roars between her gardens green 
And the bonnie Lass of Albany. 

This lovely maid’s of royal blood 
That ruled Albion’s kingdoms 
three. 

But oh, alas, for her bonnie face. 
They hae wrang’d the Lass of 
AlV)any. 

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
There sits an isle of high degree, 
And a town of fame whose princely 
name 

Should grace the Lass of Albany. 

But there’s a youth, a witless youth. 
That fills the place where she 
should be; 

We’ll send him o’er to his native 
shore. 

And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and woe the day, 

A false usurper wan the gree, 


Who now commands the towers and 
lands— 

The royal right of Albany. 

We’ll daily pray, we’ll nightly pray, 
On bended knees most ferventlie. 
The time may come, with pipe and 
drum 

We’ll welcome hame fair Albany. 
SONG. 

Tune— “ Maggie Lauder." 

When first I saw fair Jeanie’s face, 

I couldna tell what ailed me. 

My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat, 
My een they almost failed me. 

She’s aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, 
All grace does round her hover, 

Ae look deprived me o’ my heart. 
And I became a lover. 

She’s aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, 
She’s aye sae blithe and cheerie; 
She’s aye sae bonnie, blithe, and gay, 
O gin I were her dearie! 

Had I Dundas’s whole estate. 

Or Hopetoun’s wealth to shine in; 
Did warlike laurels crown my brow. 
Or humbler bays entwining— 

I’d lay them a’ at Jeanie’s feet. 

Could I but hope to move her, 

And prouder than a belted knight, 
I’d be my Jeanie’s lover 
She’s aye, aye sae blithe, sae 
gay, etc. 

But sair I fear some happier swain 
Has gained sweet Jeanie’s favor: 

If so, may every bliss be hers. 
Though I maun never have her: 
But gang she east, or gang she west, 
’Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or ears, or 
taste. 

She’ll always find a lover. 

She’s aye, aye sae blithe, sae 
gay, etc. 




APPENDIX. 


The following Elegy Extempore Verses to Oavin Hamilton, and Versicles 
vn Sign-posts, now for the first time published, are extracted, it is supposed, 
from the copy of his Commonplace Book which Burns presented to Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop. The copy, after having been in the hands of several 
persons, and at each remove denuded of certain pages, came into the pos¬ 
session of Mr Stillie, bookseller. Princes Street, Edinburgh, some years 
since, and is now the property of Mr. MacMillan. Besides the following 
poems, it contains two stanzas never before published of the Epitaph on 
Robert Fergusson,'yev^\o\i^ of There was a Lad was born in Kyle, and Cordon 
Castle, differing somewhat from those commonly printed. In the Common¬ 
place Book, the Elegy is thus introduced:—“ The following poem is the work 
of some hapless unknown son of the Muses, who deserved a better fate. 
There is a great deal of “ The Voice of Cona,” in his solitary mournful 
notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they 
would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.” Burns, it will be 
seen, does not claim the authorship, and, from internal evidence, the Editor 
is of opinion that it was not written by him. Still, the Elegy, so far at least 
as the Editor is aware, exists nowhere else; and if Burns did not actually 
compose it, he at least thought it worthy of being copied with his own 
hand into a book devoted almost exclusively to his own compositions. 
Even if it were certain that Burns was not the author, still, the knowledge 
that he admired it, and that through his agency it alone exists, is considered 
sufficient excuse for its admission here. The Extempore Verses to Oavin 
Hamilton are as certainly Burns’s as is Death and Dr. Hornbook, or the Ad¬ 
dress to the Deil. The dialect, the turn of phrase, the glittering surface of 
sarcasm, with the strong under-current of sense, and the peculiar off-hand 
impetuosity of idea and illustration, unmistakably indicate Burns’s hand, 
and his only. In the Commonplace Book, no date is given; but from the 
terms of the two closing stanzas, it would appear-that the voyage to 
Jamaica was in contemplation at the period of its composition. The last 
stanza is almost identical in thought and expression with the closing lines 
of the well-known Dedication to Oavin Hamilton, which was written at that 
time, and which appeared in the first edition of the Poems printed at 
Kilmarnock. 

The Versicles on Sign-posts have the following introduction:—“ The ever¬ 
lasting surliness of a Lion, Saracen’s head, etc., or the unchanging bland¬ 
ness of the Landlord welcoming a traveler, on some sign-posts, would be 
no bad similes of the con.stant affected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal 
simper of a Frenchman or a Fiddler.” The Versicles themselves are of 
little Avorth, and are indebted entirely to their paternity for their appear¬ 
ance here. 


353 



354 


APPENDIX. 


ELEGY. 

Strait is the spot and green the sod, 
From whence my sorrows flow: 
And soundly sleeps the ever dear 
Inhabitant below. 

Pardon my transport, gentle shade, 
While o’er the turf I bow! 

Thy earthly house is circumscrib’d. 
And solitary now. 

Not one poor stone to tell thy name. 
Or make thy virtues known; 

But what avails to me, to thee. 

The sculpture of a stone V 

I’ll sit me down upon this turf, 

And wipe away this tear; 

The chill blast passes swiftly by, 
And flits around thy bier. 

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, 
And sad their house of rest: 

Low lies the head by Death’s cold 
arm 

In awful fold embrac’d. 

I saw the grim Avenger stand 
Incessant by thy side; 

Unseen by thee, his deadly breath 
Thy lingering frame destroy’d. 

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, 
And wither’d was thy bloom. 

Till the slow poison brought thy 
youth 

Untimely to the tomb. 

Thus wasted are the ranks of men, 
Youth, Health, and Beauty fall; 
The ruthless ruin spreads around. 
And overwhelms us all. 

Behold where round thy narrow 
house 

The graves unnumber’d lie! 

The multitudes that sleep below 
Existed but to die. 

Some, with the tottering steps of Age 
Trod down the darksome way: 
And some, in yorth’s lamented 
prime. 

Like thee, were torn away. 


Yet these, however hard their fate. 
Their native earth receives: 

Amid their weeping friends they 
died, 

And till their fathers’ graves. 

From thy lov’d friends when first thy 
heart 

Was taught by Heaven to flow: 
Far, far remov’d, the ruthless stroke 
Surpris’d and laid thee low. 

At the last limits of our isle. 

Wash’d by the western wave. 
Touch’d by thy fate, a thoughtful 
bard 

Sits lonely on thy grave. 

Pensive he eyes, before him spread. 
The deep, outstretch’d and vast; 
Elis mourning notes are borne away 
Along the rapid blast. 

And while, amid the silent Dead 
Thy hapless fate he mourns. 

His own long sorrows freshly bleed. 
And all his grief returns. 

Like thee, cut off in early youth 
And flower of beauty’s pride. 

His friend, his first and only joy, 

His much loved Stella, died. 

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate 
Resistless bears along; 

And the same rapid tide shall whelm 
The poet and the Song. 

The tear of pity v/hich he shed. 

He asks not to receive; 

Let but his poor remains be laid 
Obscurely in the grave. 

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy 
Shall meet the welcome shock; 

His airy harp shall lie unstrung 
And silent on the rock. 

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when 
Shall this sick period close: 

And lead the solitary bard 
To his beloved repose V 




APPENDIX. 


355 


EXTEMPORE. 

TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

To you, Sir, this summons I’ve sent. 
Pray whip till the pownie is frae- 
thing. 

But if you demand what I want, 

I honestly answer you, naething. 

Ne’er scorn a poor Poet like me. 

For idly just living and breathing. 

While people of every degree 
Are busy employed about—nae- 
thing. 

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast. 
And grumble his hurdies their 
claithing; 

He’ll find, when the balance is cast. 
He’s gane to the devil for—nae- 
thing. 

The courtier cringes and bows, 
Ambition has likewise its play¬ 
thing ; 

A coronet beams on his brows ; 

And what is a coronet ?—naething. 

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown. 
Some quarrel Episcopal graithiug, 

But every good fellow will own 
Their quarrel is all about—nae¬ 
thing. 

The lover may sparkle and glow, 
Approaching his bonnie bit gay 
thing; 

But marriage will soon let him know 
He’s gotten a buskit up naething. 

The Poet may jingle and rhyme 
In hopes of a laureate wreathing, 

And when he has wasted.his time 
He’s kindly rewarded with nae¬ 
thing. 

The thundering bully may rage. 

And swagger and swear like a 
heathen; 

But collar him fast, I’ll engage. 
You’ll find that his courage is nae¬ 
thing. 

Last night with a feminine whig, 

A Poet she could na put faith in. 

But soon we grew lovingly big, 

I taught her, her terrors were nae¬ 
thing. 


Her whigship was wonderful 
pleased. 

But charmingly tickled wi’ ae 
thing; 

Her fingers I lovingly squeezed. 

And kissed her and promised her 
—naething. 

The priest anathemas may threat,— 
Predicament, Sir, that we’re baith 
in; 

But wdien honor’s reveille is beat, 
The holy artillery’s naething. 

And now, 1 must mount on the wave, 
My voyage perhaps there is death 
in: 

But what of a watery grave ? 

The drowning a Poet is naething. 

And now, as grim death's in my 
thought. 

To you, Sir, I make this bequeath¬ 
ing; 

My service as long as ye’ve aught, 
And my friendship, by G—, when 
ye’ve naething. 

VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS. 

He looked 

Just as your Sign-post lions do. 
As tierce, and quite as harmless too. 

PATIENT STUPIDITY. 

So heavy, passive to the tempests’ 
shocks. 

Strong on the Sign-post stands the 
stupid Ox. 


His face with smile eternal drest. 
Just like the Landlord to his guest. 
High as they hang with creaking din, 
To index out the Country Inn. 


A head, pure, sinless quite of brain 
and soul. 

The very image of a Barber’s Poll; 

It shows a human face and wears a 
wig. 

And looks, when well preserved, 
amazing big. 

18—Burns—P 











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THE 


LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. I. 

TO MISS ELLISON BEGBIE. 

[Although the exact date of the correspondence with Miss Ellison 
Begbie cannot be ascertained, there appears to be good reason for at¬ 
tributing it to some time about 1780-1, and for believing that they are 
the earliest letters of the poet which have been preserved. Ellison was 
the daughter of a small farmer, and was engaged, at the time of the 
correspondence, as domestic servant to a family on the banks of the 
Cessnock. She was an amiable, intelligent, but not particularly hand¬ 
some girl, and Burns was evidently serious in his desire to marry her. 
It was on the eve of his removal to Irvine to try his hand at flax-dress¬ 
ing, with a view to getting the means of marriage, that he learned the 
hopelessness of his passion. Ellison had already given her heart to an¬ 
other. She was the heroine of the song, “ On Cessnock Banks.”] 

Lochlea. 

I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feelings of love 
are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters 
to you. By un(5ommon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you 
should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress 
as he would converse with his minister. I don’t know how it is, my 
dear ; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives 
me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought 
that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, ’tis some¬ 
thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E, warms 
my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity 
kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and 
envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the 
arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures 

357 




358 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the unfortunate. I 
assure, you, my dear, 1 often look up to the Divine Disposer of events 
with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which 1 hope He intends to be¬ 
stow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that He may bless my 
endeavors to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both 
in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering 
the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, 
at least in my view, worthy of a man,and I will add w’orthy of a Christian. 
The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman’s person, whilst 
in reality his affection is centered in her pocket; and the slavish drudge 
may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market to choose one w^ho is 
stout and firm, and as we may say of an old horse, one who will be a good 
drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would 
be heartily out of humor with myself, if I thought 1 were capable of 
having so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor devils 1 1 don’t envy them their happiness 
who have such notions. For my part I propose quite other pleasures 
with my dear partner.—R. B. 


No. II. 

TO THE SAME. 

My Dear E. Lochlea. 

I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, 
ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in 
love amongst people of our station in life: I do not mean the persons 
who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover my¬ 
self, yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship tlian I am, I often 
think it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that 
there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the 
females, and customary for him to keep them company when occasion 
serves: some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest; there 
is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in 
her company. This 1 take to be what is called love with the greater 
part of us, and 1 must own, my dear E., it is a hard game such a one as 
you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse 
but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favorably, per¬ 
haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same un¬ 
accountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, 
whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


359 


have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson 
home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps 
one of those transient flashes I have been describing ; but 1 hope, my 
dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you 
that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue 
and honor, and by consequence so long as you continue possessed of those 
amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must 
I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone 
which can render the marriage state happy. People may talk of flames 
and raptures as long as they please, and a warm fancy, with a flow of 
youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they de¬ 
scribe ; but sure 1 am the nobler faculties of the mind, with kindred 
feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation of friendship, and it 
has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship 
in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes 
and it shall please Providence to spare us to the latest period of life, I 
can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be 
indifferent to me, 1 will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, and 
for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of these noble quali¬ 
ties, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affec¬ 
tion for her. 

“ O happy state I when souls each other draw, 

When love is liberty, and nature laAv.” 


I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks 
herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridicu¬ 
lous ; but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship I 
shall ever use to you. 

When 1 look over what I have written, I am sensible that it is vastly 
different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no 
apology—1 know your good nature will excuse what your good sense 
may see amiss.—R. B. 

No. III. 


TO THE SAME. 

LochLEA, 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, 
that though in every other situation in life telling the truth is not only 
the safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is 
never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, 
than when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honorable. I 
do not think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to 
talk of love and fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of con- 




360 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


stancy and fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he be 
villain enough to practise such detestable conduct : but to a man whose 
heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely 
loves a woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, 
and purity of manners—to such an one, in such circumstances, I can 
assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, 
courtship is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears, 
and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your com¬ 
pany, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak or what 
to write I am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall 
invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain 
truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissim¬ 
ulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one 
in so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear E., I 
shall never endeavor to gain your favor by such detestable practises. 
If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, 
your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on 
this side of eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never 
think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I 
will add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly 
request of you, and it is this : that you would soon either put an end to 
my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a gener¬ 
ous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when 
convenient. I shall only add further that, if a behavior regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honor and virtue, 
if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavor to 
promote your happiness; if these are qualities you would wish in a 
friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend 
and sincere lover,—R. B. 


No. IV. 

TO THE SAME. 


Lochlea. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknowledged the receipt of your 
letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents 
of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on 
the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving 
your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it 
was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory ; “you 
were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me,” what, 
without you, I never can obtain, “ you wish me all kind of happiness.” 
It,would be weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


36r 


happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life with you would have given it 
a relish, that, wanting you, I can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, 
do not so much strike me : these, possibly, may be met with in a few 
instances in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine 
softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart—these I never again expect to meet 
with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, 
heightened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met 
in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on 
my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagina¬ 
tion has fondly flattered myself with a wish—I dare not say it ever 
reached a hope—that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had 
formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over 
them ; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no 
right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress : still 
I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be 
allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little 
further off, and you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I wish to see 
or hear from you soon : and if an expression should perhaps escape me 
rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear 
Miss- (pardon me the dear expression for once), . . . . R. B. 

No. V. 

TO WILLIAM BURNES. 

[His disappointed love, his distaste for the dull, laborious employ¬ 
ment of flax-heckling, and the unpromising nature of the speculation, 
combined with a severe nervous malady, to throw Burns into a state of 
painful mental depression. It was a time, as he afterwards said, which 
he could not recall without a shudder. J 

Irvine, December 27th, 1781. 

Honored Sir, 

I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New Year’s Day ; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as 
for some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My 
health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a 
little sounder, and on the whole I am rather better than otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has 
so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past events,i nor 

» In all Dr. Currie’s four editions ( 1800 - 1803 ) the word “ wants” is here given, an 
obvious misprint for “events.” 



362 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


look forward into futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my 
breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, 
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I 
glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, and indeed my only 
pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and forwards in a moral 
and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought that ere long, 
p)erhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and un¬ 
easinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for 1 assure you I am 
heartily tired of it, and if I do not very much deceive myself, 1 could 
contentedly and gladly resign it. 

“ The soul uneasy, and confined at home, 

Rests and expatiates in a life to come.” 

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th 
verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as 
many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble en¬ 
thusiasm with which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. 
As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not 
formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall 
never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am al¬ 
together unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that pov¬ 
erty and obscurity probably await me, and 1 am in some measure pre¬ 
pared, and daily preparing to meet them. I have but just time and 
paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and 
piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of 
giving them, but which 1 hope have been remembered ere it is yet too 
late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments 
to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry New Year’s Day, 
1 shall conclude. 1 am, honored Sir, 

Your dutiful Son, 

Robert Burness. 

P. S. My meal is nearly out, but 1 am going to borrow till 1 get 
more. 

No. VI. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 


SCHOOLMASTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 


[John Murdoch, before his removal to London, kept the school of 
Lochlea, where the sons of William Burnes were for a time his pupils.] 


Dear Sir. 


Lochlea, \Wi January, 1783. 


As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting 
you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


363 


I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor 
ever will forget, the many obligations 1 lie under to your kindness and 
friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the re¬ 
sult of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; and 
1 wish 1 could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you will be 
pleased with ; but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, 
indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and, in this respect, I hope, 
my conduct will not disgrace the education 1 have gotten, but, as a 
man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have 
thought that, bred as I have been, under a father who has figured 
pretty well as un liomme des affaires, I might have been what the 
world calls a pushing, active fellow ; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there 
is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the 
world to see and observe ; and I very easily compound wdth the knave 
who tricks me of my money, if there be anything original about him, 
which shows me human nature in a different light from anything I 
have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to “study men, 
their manners, and their ways ; ” and for this darling subject, I cheer¬ 
fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite indolent about 
those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog ; and 
if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to 
anything further. Even the last shift of the unfortunate and the 
wretched does not much terrify me ; ^ 1 know’ that even then my talent 
for what country folks call “ a sensible crack,” when once it is sancti¬ 
fied by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem, that even 
then—1 would learn to be happy. How’ever, I am under no apprehen¬ 
sions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely deli¬ 
cate constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, especi¬ 
ally in tavern matters, I am a strict economist; not, indeed, for the 
sake of the money ; but one of the principal parts in my composition is 
a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to fear the face of any man 
living; above everything, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking in a 
corner to avoid a dun—possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my 
heart I despise and detest. ’Tis this, and this alone, that endears econ¬ 
omy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My 
favorite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, partic¬ 
ularly his “Elegies”; Thomson; “ Man of Feeling a book I prize 
next to the Bible ; “ Man of the World ” ; Sterne, especially his “ Senti¬ 
mental Journey ” ; Macpherson’s “ Ossian,” etc., these are the glorious 
models after which I endeavor to form my conduct, and ’tis incongru¬ 
ous, ’tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with senti- 


> He evidently means as a wandering beggar. 





364 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


merits lighted up at the sacred flame—the man whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race—he “ who can soar above this 
little scene of things ”—can he descend to mind the paltry concerns 
about which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! 
Oh how the glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget that I am a 
poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and 
down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, reading a page 
or two of mankind, and “ catching the manners living as they rise,” 
whilst the men of business jostle me on every side, as an idle incum¬ 
brance in their way. . . . 

Dear Sir, yours. 


No. VII. 


R. B. 


COMMONPLACE BOOK. 

[The following “ Observations ” were written between 1783 and 1785, 
and were sent by Burns to Mr. Robert Riddel, with the following 
note: “ My dear Sir,—On rummaging over some old papers I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in which I had determined to write myself 
out ; as I was placed by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense, I had meant that the book should 
have lain by me, in the fond hope that some time or other, even after 
I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody 
capable of appreciating their value.”] 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps op Poetry, etc. , by Robert 
Burness ; a man who had little art in making money, and still less in 
keeping it; but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal of 
honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irra¬ 
tional.—As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred 
at a plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his 
unpolished, rustic way of life ; but as I believe they are really his own, 
it may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature 
to see how a ploughman thinks and feels under tlie pressure of love, 
ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, how¬ 
ever diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much 
alike, I believe, on all the species. 

“ There are numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much 
as an opinion of their own abilities to put them upon recording their observations, 
and allowing them the same importance which they do to those that appear in 
print.”— Shenstgne. 

” Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed 1 
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 

Such the soft image of our youthful mind.”—76tci. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


365 


April, 1783. 

Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the 
folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; still I 
think it in a great measure deserves the highest encomiums that have 
been passed upon it. If anything on earth deserves the name of rapt¬ 
ure or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of 
the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of 
affection. 

August. 

There is certainly some connection between love and music and 
poetry ; and, therefore, I have alvrays thought it a fine touch of nature, 
that passage in a modern love-composition :— 

“ As towards her cot he jogged along, 

Her name was frequent in his song.” 

For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turn¬ 
ing poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The following com¬ 
position was the first of my performances, and done at an early period 
of my life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity; un¬ 
acquainted and uncorrupted with the w’ays of a wicked world. The 
performance is, indeed, very puerile and silly ; but I am always pleased 
with it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was 
yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young 
girl 1 who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not 
only had this opinion of her then—but I actually think so still, now 
that the spell is long since broken, and the charm at an end :— 

O once I lov’d a bonnie lass. {Page .) 

Lest my words should be thought below criticism ; or meet with a 
critic who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and favorable 
an eye ; I am determined to criticise them myself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy 
strain of our ordinary street ballads ; and, on the other hand, the second 
distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little 
awkward, and the sentiment too serious. Stanza the second I am w^ell 
pleased with ; and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of 
the sex—the agreeables ; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet 
sonsy lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it; and 
the third line has rather too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very 
indifferent one; the first line is, indeed, all in the strain of the second 
stanza, but the rest is mostly expletive. The thoughts in the fifth 

» ” Handsome Nell,”—Nelly Kirkpatrick, his first sweetheart. 




366 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


stanza come finely up to my favorite idea—a sweet sonsy lass : the last 
line, however, halts a little. The same sentiments are kept up with 
equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza; but the second and 
fourth lines ending with short syllables hurt the whole. The seventh 
stanza has several minute faults; but I remember I composed it in a 
wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but 
my heart melts, my blood sallies at the remembrance. 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his 
excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful 
sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of 
fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities in the prO' 
curement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our own 
follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with 
manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense 
of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace. 

That press the soul, or ring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say—“ It was no deed of mine ; " 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added—" Blame thy foolish self ; ” 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing, consciousness of guilt— 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we’ve involved others ; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin I 
O burning hell 1 In all thy store of torments 
There’s not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, w'hile his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment. 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 

O happy 1 happy 1 enviable man I 
O glorious magnanimity of soul 1 

March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life, 
that every man, even the worst, has something good about him; 
though very often nothing else than a happy temperament of consti¬ 
tution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can say in what degree any other person, besides himself, can be, with 
strict justice, called wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine impartially how many vices 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


367 


he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for 
want of opportunity, or some accidental circumstance intervening; 
how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation ; and, what often, if not always, 
weighs more than all the rest, how much he is indebted to the world’s 
good opinion, because the world does not know all: I say, any man 
who can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, 
of mankind around him, with a brother’s eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind com¬ 
monly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther 
than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by 
thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to 
ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes stained with guilt, 
I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the 
noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and 
even modesty. 

April. 

As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would 
call a whimsical mortal, 1 have various sources of pleasures and enjoy¬ 
ment, which are in a manner peculiar to myself, or some here and 
there such other out-of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure 
I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I 
believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a 
melancholy cast; but there is something even in the 

“ Mighty tempest and the hoary waste, 

Abrupt and deep, stretch’d o’er the buried earth,”— 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favorable to everything 
great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more— 
I do not know if I should call it pleasure—but something which exalts 
me, something which enraptures me—than to walk in the sheltered 
side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear 
the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. 
It is my best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of 
enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
“ walks on the wings of the wind.” In one of these seasons just after 
a train of misfortunes, 1 composed the following 

The wintry west extends his blast. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love verses, writ without any real 
passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought 
that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he him¬ 
self, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. 




368 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


As I have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led 
into a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the 
more confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery and con¬ 
ceit from real passion and nature. Whether the following song will 
stand the test, 1 will not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only I 
can say it was, at the time, genuine from the heart 

Behind yon hills, etc. 

There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by 
repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, 
the utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most 
dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this 
wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, 1 hung 
my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of 
which 1 composed the following 


O thou Great Being i what thou art. 

April. 

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versi¬ 
fication ; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, 
for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over :— 


My father was a farmer upon the Garrick border. 

April. 

1 think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough 
divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry; though, by the by these terms do not with propriety enough 
express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of 
those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling 
wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of pleas¬ 
ure of all denominations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and 
spirit to have any settled rule of action ; but, without much delibera¬ 
tion, follow the strong impulses of nature : the thoughtless, the careless, 
the indolent—in particular he who, with a happy sweetness of natural 
temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life—gener¬ 
ally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and obscurity are 
only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining com¬ 
parison between his own situation and that of others ; and lastly, to 
grace the quorum, such are, generally, those whose heads are capable 
of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all 
the delicacy of feeling. 

August. 

The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the 
various species of men ; but as I cannot pldhse myself in the arrange- 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


369 


ment of iny ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer obser¬ 
vation throw more liglit on the subject.—In the meantime 1 shall set 
down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of 
my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes 1 be¬ 
long to : 

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’, 

In ev’ry hour that passes, O. 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with 
that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that renders 
life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our 
fellow-creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we 
may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good which 
reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave, 1 do not see 
that the turn of mind and pursuits of such an one as the above verses 
describe—one who spends the hours and thoughts which the vocations 
of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thomson, Shenstone, 
Sterne, etc.; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a fiddle, or a song to 
make or mend ; and at all times some heart’s-dear bonnie lass in view 
—I say 1 do not see that the turn of mind and pursuits of such an one 
are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, 
than the even lawful bustling and straining after the world’s riches and 
honors; and 1 do not see but he may gain heaven as well—which, by 
the by, is no mean consideration—who steals through the vale of life, 
amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, 
as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all 
about him, gains some of life’s little eminences, where, after all, he can 
only see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride 
of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind 
him. 

August. 

A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a 
pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens 
me, first put nature on the alarm :— 

O Thou unknown. Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear I 

August, 

Misgivings in the hour of despondency and prospect of death 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May [1784?] 

I don’t well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other, 
though 1 am, when 1 have a mind, pretty generally beloved, yeti never 



370 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


could get the art of commanding respect: I imagine it is owing to my 
being deficient in what Sterne calls “ that understrapping virtue of dis¬ 
cretion.” I am so apt to a lapsus linguce, that I sometimes think the 
character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very much 
d-propos to myself—that he was a compound of great talents and great 
folly.—N. B. To try if I can discover the causes of this wretched in¬ 
firmity, and, if possible, to mend it. 

[Here follow the song TIio’ cruel Fate should hid us part; the frag¬ 
ment One night as I did wander ; There teas a lad was born in Kyle; 
Elegy on the death of Robert Ruisseaux.'\ 


August. 

However, I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particu¬ 
larly the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet 
I am hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods, 
haughs, etc., immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my 
dear native country, the ancient bailieries of Garrick, Kyle, and Cun¬ 
ningham, famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and 
warlike race of inhabitants ; a country where civil, and particularly 
religious liberty have ever found their first support, and their last 
asylum ; a country, the birthplace of many famous philosophers, 
soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many important events re¬ 
corded in Scottish history, particularly a great many of the actions 
of the glorious Wallace, the saviour of his country ; yet, we never have 
had one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of 
Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the 
heathy mountainous source and winding sweep of Boon, emulate Tay, 
Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, etc. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, 
but alas! I am far unequal to the task both in native genius and 
education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, though no young 
poet, nor young soldier’s heart, ever beat more fondly for fame than 
mine :— 

“ And if there is no other scene of being 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill, 

This something at my heart that heaves for room 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain.” 


A Fragment— 


August. 


When first I came to Stewart Kyle. 


September. 

There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of 
syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


371 


English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously, with 
the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the fine old 
song of “ The Mill, Mill, O,’* to give it a plain, prosaic reading, it halts 
prodigiously out of measure ; on the other hand, the song set to the 
same tune in Bremner’s collection of Scotch songs, wdiich begins, “To 
Fanny fair could 1 impart,” etc., it is most exact measure : and yet, let 
them both be sung before a real critic, one above the biases of prejudices, 
but a thorough judge of nature,—how flat and spiritless will the last 
appear, how trite, and lamely methodical, compared with the wild- 
warbling cadence, the heart-moving melody of the first! This is par¬ 
ticularly the case with all those airs which end with a hypermetrical 
syllable. There is a degree of wild iregularity in many of the com¬ 
positions and fragments which are daily sung to them by my compeers, 
the common people—a certain happy arrangement of old Scotch syl¬ 
lables, and yet, very frequently, nothing not even like rhyme, or same¬ 
ness of jingle, at the end of the lines. This has made me sometimes 
imagine that perhaps it might be possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice 
judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our most favorite airs, 
particularly that class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme 
altogether. 

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our 
ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand ; 
and it has often given me many a heartache to reflect that such 
glorious old bards—bards who very probably owed all their talents to 
native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of 
disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature 
—that their very names (oh how mortifying to a bard’s vanity !) are 
now “ buried among the wreck of things which were.” 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and 
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the Muses’ train—one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling 
wing would sometimes soar after you—a poor rustic bard unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us, with 
all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world- 
unfortunate in love : he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the 
loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his Muse : she taught him in rustic 
measures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your 
bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this 
world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy and 
love ! 




372 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


September. 

[Here follows the song on Montgomerie's Peggy.] 

There is a fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well knowm 
among the country ingle sides. I cannot tell the name, neither of the 
song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another. By 
the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one 
would compose to them, to “ south the tune,” as our Scotch phrase is, 
over and over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration, and raise 
the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our 
old Scotch poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece men¬ 
tioned above, both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as 
a debt I owe to the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted 
up my flame a thousand times : — 

When clouds in skies do come together— 

To hide the brightness of the weather, 

There will surely be some pleasant weather 
When a’ their storms are past and gone.* 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me. 

She promised fair and perform'd but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,— 

Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I’ll act with prudence as far as I’m able ; 

But if success I must never find. 

Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome. 

I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of 
misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already ; and though 
the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always 
been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, 
which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, 
overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, 
squalid wretchedness.—However, as I hope my poor country Muse, 
who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms 
for me then any other of the pleasures of life beside — as I hope she will 
not then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if not happy, at least 
easy and south a sang to soothe my misery. 

’Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch 
style. I am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tune prop- 

* Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before this verse. [This is the 
author’s note. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


373 


erly, so it can never see the light, and perliaps ’tis no great matter ; 
but the following were the verses I composed to suit it:— 

“ O raging fortune’s withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, O 1 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went 
through the whole air. 

October, 1785. 

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw 
his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil’s dear- 
bought experience. I have literally, like that great poet and great gal¬ 
lant, and by consequence that great fool, Solomon, “ turned my eyes to 
behold madness and folly.” Nay, I have, with all the ardor of a 
lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, 
feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 

In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up 
a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. 

No. VIII. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNES, 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 

[James Burnes was Robert’s cousin, the son of his father’s elder 
brother, and grandfather of Sir Alex. Burnes, of Afghan fame.] 

Lochlea, Sls^ June, 1783. 

Dear Sir, 

My father received your favor of the 10th current; and as he 
has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own 
opinion (and, indeed, in almost everybody’s else) in a dying condition, 
he has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each 
of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen 
for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you. Sir, that 
it shall not be my fault if my father’s correspondence in the north die 
with him. My brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer 
you for the news of our family. 

I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the wretched 
state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; oatmeal Md. 
and 18d. per peck, and not to be got even at that price. We have in¬ 
deed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from 
England and elsewhere, but that resource is likel}’^ to fail us, and what 
will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort. Heaven only 




374 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the 
manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet weaving ; and we are still carry¬ 
ing on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. 
We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and 
hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is 
also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are 
mountainous and barren ; and our landholders, full of ideas of farm¬ 
ing gathered from the English and the Lothians, and other rich soils in 
Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and 
consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be 
found able to pay. We are also much at a'loss for want of proper 
methods in our improvements of farming. Necessity compels us to 
leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well 
informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate 
beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this 
country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, 
a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our knights 
and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, & 
Co.’s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone numbers of them ; 
and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fop¬ 
peries, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling 
carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests 
of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too 
often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals 
to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, as is 
usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favors, is gen¬ 
erally even with them at last: and happy were it for numbers of them 
if she would leave them no worse than when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a cheese ; ’tis but a very little 
one, as our last year’s stock is sold off ; but if you could fix on any cor¬ 
respondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one 
in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care 
80 far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be very 
happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country, when 
opportunity serves. 

My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his 
warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and 
the rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, 
Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of. 

Dear Sir, 

Your affectionate Cousin, 

^ R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


375 


No. IX. 

TO THE SAME. 

[William Burnes died on the 13th February, 1784. On his death-bed 
he owned there was one of his family for whose future he feared, and 
Robert being then alone in the room with his father and sister (Mrs. 
Begg) asked, “ Oh, father, is it me you mean ? ” The old man said it 
was; and Robert, turning to the window, burst into tears. William 
Burnes lies buried in Alloway Kirkyard. On the small headstone over 
his grave are some lines by his son, lamenting his loss, and commemo¬ 
rating his virtues.] 

Dear Cousin, Lochlea, \Wi February, 1784. 

1 would have returned you my thanks for your kind favor of the 
I3th Dec. sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account 
of that melancholy event which, for some time past, we have from day 
to day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, 
we had long warning of the impending stroke, still tlie feelings of 
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments 
and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, 
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would 
partly condemn. 

I hope my father’s friends in your country will not let their con¬ 
nection in this place die with him. For my part 1 shall ever with 
pleasure, with pride, acknowledge my connection with those who were 
allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I 
shall ever honor and revere. . . . 


No. X. 

TO THE SAME. 

[This letter, it will be observed, is dated from Mossgiel, whither, on 
Mr. Burnes’ death, the family removed from Lochlea. The old man's 
affairs were in a very embarrassed condition, and his two sons and 
two grown daughters had to rank as creditors of their father for arrears 
of wages in order to save part of the Lochlea stocking for their new 
venture. “ Mossgiel,” says Gilbert Burns, “ was stocked by the prop¬ 
erty and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern 
among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages 
for the labor he performed on the farm. My brother’s allowance and 



3/6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


mine were £7 per annum each. And during the whole time this 
family concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the pre¬ 
ceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year exceeded 
his slender income.”] 

Mossgiel, August, 1784. 

We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenom¬ 
ena in the moral world which, I dare say, has happened in the course 
of this half century. We have had a party of Presbytery Relief, as they 
call themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving 
society of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till 
about two years ago, a Mrs. Buchan,* from Glasgow, came among them 
and began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, 
and, in a short time, made many converts; and among others their 
preacher, Mr. White, who upon that account has been suspended and 
formally deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach 
in private to his party, and was supported, both he and their spiritual 
mother, as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the 
rest, several of whom were in good circumstances; till, in spring last, 
the populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan and put her out of the 
town; on which, all her followers voluntarily quitted the place like¬ 
wise, and with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their 
doors behind them; one left a washing on the green', another a cow 
bellowing at the crib without food, or anybody to mind her ; and after 

^ Allan Cunningham gives the following interesting note on Mrs. Buchan and her 
followers “ The Buchanites were a small community of enthusiasts, who believe the 
time to be at hand when there would neither be marriage nor giving in marriage— 
when the ground, instead of thistles and heather, would yield spontaneously the 
finest fruits—when all things under the sun would be in common—and ‘ Our Lady,’ so 
they call Mrs. Buchan, reign spiritual queen of the earth. At first they held the doc¬ 
trine of immediate translation, but a night spent in wild prayer, wild song, and 
wilder sermons on the top of a cold hill rebuked this part of their belief, but strength¬ 
ened them in the opinion regarding their empire on earth ; and confirmed ‘ Our 
Lady in the resolution of making a tour through her imaginary dominions. She 
accordingly moved towards Nithsdale with all her people—some were in carts, some 
were on horseback, and not a few on foot. She rode in front upon a white pony ; and 
often halted to lecture them upon the loveliness of the land, and to cheer them with 
food from what she called her ‘ Garner of mercy,’ and with drink from a large cup 
called ‘ The comforter.’ She addressed all people as she passed along with much 
mildness, and spoke to them in the language of their callings. ‘ James Macleish,’ she 
said to a gardener, who went to see her, ‘ quit Mr. Copland's garden, and come and 
work in that of the Lord ‘ Thank ye,’ answered James, ‘ but he was na owre kind 
to the last gardener he had.’ ‘ Our Lady ' died at Auchengibard-hill in Galloway, 
and her followers were dispersed. A few of the more resolute believers took a farm : 
the women spun and made large quantities of linen ; the men ploughed and sowed, 
and made articles of turnery : their lives were inoffensive and their manners gentle ; 
they are now all dead and gone." An interesting History of the Buchanites has been 
written by Mr. Joseph Train. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


377 


several stages, they are fixed at present in the neighborhood of 
Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon ; 
among others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing 
on them, which she does with postures and practises that are scandal¬ 
ously indecent; they have likewise disposed of all their effects, and 
hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a 
great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where they 
lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, 
as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I 
am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the 
above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leav¬ 
ing the guidance of sound reason and common-sense in matters of 
religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical 
notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences 
of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most incon¬ 
stant absurdities, will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have 
often thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the 
fancies are, if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of 
religion, the unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to 
them.—R. B. 


No. XI. 

TO MISS-. 

[This and the following letter may be assigned to 1784-5.j 
My dear Countrywoman, 

I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with 
you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait 
the uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or 
lost Collins’ Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, 
I will forward them by you ; if not, you must apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you 
together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast 
has been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof 
against the fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will “ feelingly 
convince me what I am.” I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure 
what is the matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom ; when 
you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of dam¬ 
nation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by 








3/8 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


yourself, though what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure 
1 know not. I have no formed design in all this; but just, in the 
nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. 
You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that will 
completely cure me ; but I wish you would not: just let us meet, if 
you please, in the old beaten way of friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, 
I think, at least fifty miles off from my heart ; but 1 will conclude with 
sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you 
from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of 
deceit.—K. B. 


No. XII. 

TO MISS KENNEDY OF DALGARROCK. 

. [Miss Margaret Kennedy, the young lady to whom this letter and the 
enclosed song (“ Young Peggy ”) were addressed, was the heroine of a 
melancholy story of betrayed love and cruel desertion : although now 
only seventeen years of age, the fatal intrigue with Captain M’Dowall 
of Logan had commenced ; but, of course, nothing was suspected by 
any one at this time. Miss Kennedy's case furnished the theme for the 
affecting song, “Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Doon.”J 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed song, as a small 
though grateful tribute for the honor of your acquaintance. I have, 
in these verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the 
unembellished manner of descriptive truth. Flattery I leave to your 
LOVERS, whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still 
nearer perfection than you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of 
BEAUTY ; as, if they are really poets of Nature’s making, their feelings 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate, than most of the world. 
In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn, 
the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the poet 
feels a charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a 
fine flower, or the company of a fine woman (by far the finest part of 
God’s works below), have sensations for the poetic heart that the herd 
of men are strangers to. On this last account. Madam, I am, as in 
many other things, indebted to Mr. H.’s kindness in introducing me to 
you. Your lovers may view you with a wish, I look on you with 
pleasure: their hearts, in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


379 


That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to 
humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your heart ,—that 
the snares of villainy may never beset you on the road of life,—that 
INNOCENCE may hand you by the path of honor to the dwelling of 
PEACE,— is the sincere wish of him who has the honor to be, etc.—R. B. 

[The song enclosed, “ Young Peggy,” will be found in page .] 

No. XIII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

[John Richmond was an early friend of Burns’ when clerk to the 
poet’s patron and landlord, Mr. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer in Mauchline. 
Richmond was his companion in many a merry adventure at Mauchline, 
and afterwards received him in his lodging on his first arrival in Edin¬ 
burgh.] 


Mossgiel, February 7f/i, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and 
neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been 
very busy with the Muses since I saw you, and have composed, among 
several others, “The Ordination,” a poem on Mr. M’Kinlay’s being 
called to Kilmarnock; “ Scotch Drink,”a poem ; “ The Cotter’s Satur¬ 
day Night“ An Address to the Devil,” etc. I have likewise com¬ 
pleted my poem on the “ Dogs,” but have not shown it to the world. 
My chief patron now is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express 
great approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by 
Connel, and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint 
you with about Mauchline ; they are just going on in the old way. I 
have some very important news with respect to myself, not the most 
agreeable—news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you 
the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith ; he 
is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive 
your long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regu¬ 
larly by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure 
neither good nor bad fortune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, 
as I got yours but yesterday. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours.—R. B, 


18—Bums—Q 




380 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. XIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

[This is the last of the Poet’s letters to which he has written his name 
Burness. Before this he had sometimes signed it as it now appears; 
and as his poems were about to go to the press, he decided upon abiding 
by Burns.] 

Mossgiel, 20th March, 1786. 

Dear Sir, 

I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you 
returned through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, I could not be in 
town before the evening. 

I here enclose you my “ Scotch Drink,” and “ may the-follow 

with a blessing for your edification.” I hope, sometime before we hear 
the gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I 
intend we shall have a gill between us in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will 
be a great comfort and consolation to. 

Dear Sir, your humble servant, 

Robert Burness. 


No. XV. 

TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

[Burns had issued proposals for publishing his ppems. In a letter 
written in April, 1786, and supposed to be addressed to Mr. Ballantine 
of Ayr, he refers to the intended publication, and adds concerning his 
unhappy affair with Jean Armour—“Old Mr. Armour prevailed with 
him (Mr. Aiken) to mutilate that unlucky paper ^ yesterday. Would 
you believe it?—though I had not a hope, nor even a wish, to make her 
mine after her conduct, yet when he told me, the names were all out 
of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the 
news.” To David Brice, a shoemaker in Glasgow, Burns speaks more 
fully.] 

Mossgiel, June 12th, 1786. 

Dear Brice, 

I received your message by G. Paterson, and as I am not very 
throng at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a 
worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the land 


‘ This was of course the informal marriage contract he had signed with Jean. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


381 


of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have 
no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you 
to hear. 

Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You 
have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. 
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don’t know; one thing I do 
know—she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or 
rather adored, a woman more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth 
between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though 
I won’t tell her so if I were to see her, which I don’t want to do. My 
poor dear unfortunate Jean ! how happy have I been in thy arms ! It 
is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel 
most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I 
from my very soul forgive her; and may His grace be with her and 
bless her in all her future life ! I can have no nearer idea of the place 
of eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her 
account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds of 
dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other 
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a 
grand cure: the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to 
Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland ! and farewell dear 
ungrateful Jean 1 for never, never will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and 
to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages—it is just the last foolish action I intend to 
do, and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear Brice, 

Your Friend and Well-wisher, 

R. B. 


No. XVI. 

TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

Mossgiel, 9th July, 1786. 


I have waited on Armour since her return home ; not from the least 
view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and, to you I 
will confess it, from a foolish hankering fondness, very ill-placed 
indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show that 
penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am 



382 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with 
the rules of the Church, which for that very reason I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am indulged 
so far as to appear in my own seat. 

Peccavi pater; miserere me. 

My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers 
return them by Connell (the carrier). The Lord stand with the right¬ 
eous. Amen, Amen I 

R. B. 


No. XVII. 


TO MR. DAVID BRICE, 


SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 


Mossgiel, Vlth July, 1786. 

I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find 
as much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to 
Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the 
house ; nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. 
I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the 
liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for 
the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that 
she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not 
allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as 
the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much 
pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to 
tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, 
and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before 
I leave the country, I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am, 

Dear Brice, yours, 

R. B. 


No. XVIII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 


My dear Richmond, 


Old Rome Forest, Z^th July, 1786.i 


My hour is now come—you and I will never meet in Britain more. 
I have orders, within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 


^ The Poet, when he wrote this letter, was skulking from Garrick to Kyle, and 
from Kyle to Garrick: “Some ill-advised persons,” he said, “had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at his heels.” This was done, however, merely to get him 
to quit the country. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


383 


Nancy, ’ Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Anti¬ 
gua. This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a 
secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it ? Armour has got a 
warrant to throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. 
This they keep an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little 
dream of ; and I am wandering from one friend’s house to another, and, 
like a true son of the Gospel, “ have nowhere to lay my head.” 1 know 
you will pour an execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised 
girl, for my sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, 
enraged lover’s bosom, await her mother until her latest hour ! I write 
in a moment of rage, reflecting on my miserable situation—exiled, 
abandoned, forlorn. 1 can write no more. Let me hear from you by 
the return of coach. I will write you ere I go. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours, here and hereafter, 

R. B. 


No. XIX. 

TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, 

MAUCHLINE. 

Monday morning, Mossgiel, August [17861. 

My dear Sir, 

I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor¬ 
tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they deranged my plans altogether. They 
assure him that to send me from Savannah-la-Mar to Port Antonio will 
cost my master, Chas. Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides run¬ 
ning the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic fever in consequence 
of hard traveling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending 
me with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of September, 
right for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an inti¬ 
mate friend of Mr. Gavin Hamilton’s, and as good a fellow as heart 
could wish ; with him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter I 
know not, but I hope to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood 
of mine that fears them! I know their worst, and am prepared to 
meet it:— 

“ I’ll laugh, an’ sing, an’ shake my leg, 

As lang’s I do.” 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be 
out of bed about seven o’clock, I shall see you as I ride through to 





384 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex I I feel there is still happi¬ 
ness for me among them 

" O woman, lovely woman I Heaven designed you 
To temper man I—we had been brutes without you I ” 

R. B. 


No. XX. 

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[It was towards the end of July, 1786, that “ Poems, chiefly in the 
Scottish Dialect, by Robert Burns,” was published, and the following 
letter was written in the course of the next month.] 

Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 

My dear Sir, 

Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst, gave me much enter¬ 
tainment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed 
your way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 
16th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and 
take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica; and 
I expect orders to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made 
my public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous 
class. Could I have got a carrier, you should have had a score of 
vouchers for my Authorship ; but now you have them let them speak 
for themselves. 


Farewell, dear friend 1 may guid luck bit you 
And ’mang her favorites admit you ! 

If e’er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him 1 
And ony de’il that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord deceive him. 


No. XXI. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILMARNOCK. 

Mossgiel, Friday noon [Sept, I*] 

My Friend, my Brother, 


You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A 
very fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


385 


some w^ith tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through 
my soul. 


I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this 
when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a vis¬ 
it from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

R. B. 


No. XXII. 


TO MR. BURNES, 


MONTROSE. 


Mossgiel, Sept. 26th, 1786. 

My dear Sir, 

I this moment receive yours—receive it with the honest hospitable 
warmth of a friend’s welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens 
always up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recol¬ 
lections of my paternal friends carries as far as it will go. ’Tis there 
that man is blest! ’Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of 
something within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence 
to the hoary (earthly) author of his being—the burning glow when he 
clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom—the tender yearnings of 
heart for the little angels to whom he has given existence—these nature 
has poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man 
who never rouses them to action, by the inspiring influences of their 
proper objects, loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after 
harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not 
comply with your friendly invitation. 


No. XXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. 


r.‘b. 


[To the suffering of remorse and humiliation which befell Burns 
through Jean Armour, was added, about this time, the bitter grief of 
learning Highland Mary’s death.] 

Ayrshire [Oct.], 1786. 

Sir, 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t’other day, and settled all our 
bygone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made 
him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of 





386 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of 
a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the print¬ 
ing about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, 
if I will advance for the paper, but this you know is out of my power ; 
so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer ! an epocha 
which, I think will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of 
my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude 
to Mr. Ballantine, by publishing my poem of “The Brigs of Ayr.” I 
would detest myself as a wretch, if 1 thought I were capable in a very 
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with 
which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself 
in my grateful sensations; but 1 believe, on the whole, I have very 
little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequences 
of reflection ; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too 
inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish 
habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, 
respecting the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against 
it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business ; the consequence of 
my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
home ; and besides I have for some time been pining under secret 
wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know—the pang of dis¬ 
appointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, 
which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is 
not called away by the call of society, or the vagaries of the Muse. 
Even in the hour of social mirth my gayety is the madness of an intoxi¬ 
cated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons 
urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer 
— the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, over¬ 
balances everything that can be laid in the scale against it. . . . 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment 
which strikes home to my very soul: though skeptical on some points 
of our current belief, yet, 1 think, I have every evidence for the reality 
of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then 
how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of 
existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me 
in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling inno- 
cency of helpless infancy ? O Thou great unknown Power!—Thou 
Almighty God I who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed 
me with immortality !—I have frequently wandered from that order 
and regularity necessary for the perfection of Thy works, yet Thou hast 
never left me nor forsaken me I . . . 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


387 


Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm 
of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me, per¬ 
haps it may not be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your 
friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the 
settled tenor of my present resolution; but should inimical circum¬ 
stances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only 
threaten to entail farther misery- . . . 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world, in 
general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some 
time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misan¬ 
thrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at 
every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, 
all defenseless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred 
to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a 
busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a progressive struggle; 
and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive man¬ 
ners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well boast), 
still, more than these passive qualities, there was something to be done. 
When all my schoolfellows and youthful compeers (those misguided 
few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the “ hallachores ” 
of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest in¬ 
tent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was “ stand¬ 
ing idle in the market-place,” or only left the chase of the butterfly 
from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. . . . 

You see, Sir, that if to know one’s errors were a probability of mend¬ 
ing them, 1 stand a fair chance : but, according to the reverend West¬ 
minster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very 
far from always implying it.—R. B. 


No. XXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

OF DUNLOP. 

[While suffering from the depression consequent upon a long and 
painful sickness, Mrs. Dunlop happened to meet with the “Cotter’s 
Saturday Night,” and was so stirred and delighted with it, that she at 
once despatched a messenger to Mossgiel, some fifteen miles off, with a 
letter expressing her admiration, and an order for half a dozen copies 
of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns’s Poems.] 








388 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Ayrshire, 1786. 

Madam, 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honored with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I 
am fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus: nor is it 
easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those, whose character in life gives them a right to be polite 
judges, honor him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me. Madam, you could not have touched my darling 
heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate 
your illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his country. 

“ Great patriot hero I ill-requited chief I ” ‘ 

The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
pleasure, was “ The Life of Hannibal; ” the next was “ The History of 
Sir William Wallace ” : for several of my earlier years I had few other 
authors ; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious 
vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate 
stories. In those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck 
with that part of Wallace’s story where these lines occur— 

“ Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 

To make a silent and a safe retreat.” 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, 
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto : and, 
as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic coun¬ 
tryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that 
my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some 
measure equal to his merits.—R. B. 


No. XXV. 

TO MRS. STEWART 


OF STAIR. 

1786. 

Madam, 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me 
from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent 

» Mrs. Dunlop, a daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, was descended from 
the brother of the hero. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


389 


you a parcel of songs, etc., which never made their appearance, except 
to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great en¬ 
tertainment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. 
The song to the tune of “ Ettrick Banks ” [The Bonnie Lass of Balloch- 
myle] you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in 
manuscript. I think, myself, it has some merit: both as a tolerable 
descri. ion of one of nature’s sweetest scenes, a July evening ; and one 
of the finest pieces of nature’s JV’orkmanship, the finest indeed we know 
anything of, an amiable, beautiful young woman ; ^ but I have no com¬ 
mon friend to procure me that permission, without which I would not 
dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in 
this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to 
t ke notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. 
Their high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, 
Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain 
disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of your connections in life, 
and have no access to where your real character is to be found—the 
company of your compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most 
refined adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure re¬ 
member ;—the reception I got when I had the honor of waiting on you 
at Stair.'^ I am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good 
deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those 
in exalted stations know how happy they could make some classes of 
their inferiors by condescension and affability, they would never stand 
so high, measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, 
but condescend as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.—R. B. 

No. XXVI. 

TO DR. MACKENZIE, 

MAUCHLINE. 

INCLOSINO HIM VERSES ON DINING WITH LORD DAER. 

[Of this meeting, which took place at Dugald Stewart’s summer 
lodgings at Catrine, a few miles from Mossgiel, the Professor has left the 
following account“ His manners were then, as they continued ever 

1 Miss Alexander. 

2 Burns had accompanied a friend on a courting expedition to Mrs. Stewart’s house, 
and the report of his genial humor and poetical powers having reached the parlor 
from the servants’ room. Burns was invited to an interview with the lady of the house. 





390 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


afterwards, simple, manly, and independent; strongly expressive of 
conscious genius and worth, but without anything that indicated for¬ 
wardness, arrogance, and vanity. He took his share in conversation, 
but not more than belonged to him ; and listened with apparent atten¬ 
tion and deference on subjects where his want of education deprived 
him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of 
gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would, I think, have 
been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law in 
the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, and his dread of anything 
approaching to meanness and servility rendered his manner somewhat 
decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his 
various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and originality of 
his language when he spoke in company, more particularly as he aimed 
at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than 
most Scotchmen the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology.”] 

Dear Sir, Monday morning [Oct.] 

I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that 
pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honor of paying my 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the Professor [Dugald 
Stewart]. I would be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness 
and friendship, though I were not the object; he does it with such a 
grace. I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus—four 
parts Socrates—four parts Nathaniel—and two parts Shakspeare’s 
Brutus. 

The foregoing verses (see page 175) were really extempore, but a little 
corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that 
partiality with which you are so good as to favor the performances of, 

Dear Sir, 

Your very humble Servant, 

R. B. 


Na XXVII. 

TO MISS ALEXANDER. 

[Burns, walking one evening in the private grounds of Ballochmyle, 
met Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, the laird’s sister, who, surprised to 
see a stranger there, started and hurried on. It was as an apology for 
this intrusion that Burns composed the poem referred to in the follow¬ 
ing letter. The lady’s interpretation of its meaning was colored by 
unfavorable reports of Burns’ character, and neither letter nor poem 
was ever acknowledged. Miss Alexander died in 1843, at the age of 88.J 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


391 


Madam, Mossgiel, 18th November, 1786. 

Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward 
fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows 
them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of 
judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties 
that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the inclosed poem, 
which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it 
is the best my abilities can produce ; and what to a good heart will, 
perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 

The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say. Madam, 
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in 
the favorite haunts of my Muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view 
nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. Tlie evening sun was 
flaming over the distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson 
opening blossom or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden 
moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring 
their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little 
songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, 
he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious en¬ 
deavor to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your 
secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you— 
your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary haw¬ 
thorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but 
must have been interested in its w^elfare, and wished it preserved from 
the rudely browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such was 
the scene,—and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I 
spied one of the fairest pieces of nature’s workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet’s eye, those visionary bards 
excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings I Had Calumny and 
Villainy taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace 
with such an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a poet I It would have raised plain 
dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

The inolosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps it 
but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a 
scene. . . . 

I have the honor to be, Madam, 

Your most obedient and very humble Servant, 

R. B. 



392 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. XXVIII. 

TO WILLIAM CHALMERS AND JOHN McADAM. 

In the name of the NINE. Amen ! 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date 
the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven 
hundred and fifty-nine,^ Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over 
the districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old 
extent, To our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John 
McAdam, student practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science 
cf confounding right and wrong. 

Right Trusty : 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and 
watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufac¬ 
turers, retainers, and vendors of poesy; bards, poets, poetasters, 
rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, etc., etc., etc., etc., male 
and female—We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and 
wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof We have here inclosed; Our 
Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable 
individual of that most execrable species, known by the appellation, 
phrase, and nickname of The Deil’s Yell Nowte : ^ and after having 
caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of 
the day, put into the said wretch’s merciless hands the said copy of 
the said nefarious and wicked song, to be^consumed by fire in the pres¬ 
ence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such com¬ 
positions and composers. And this in nowise leave ye undone, but 
have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the 
twenty-fourth current, when in person we hope to applaud your faith¬ 
fulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini, 
one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. 

God save the Bard I 

No. XXIX. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

[The Edinburgh expedition was undertaken in consequence of the 
following letter, written by the blind poet, Thomas Blacklock, to the 

‘ His birthday. 

* “ The deil’s yell nowte,” according to Gilbert Burns, is here used as a scoffing 
epithet applied to sheriff’s officers, and other executors of the law. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


393 


Rev. Mr. Lawrie, from whom it passed through Gavin Hamilton to 
Burns :— 

“ I ought to have acknowledged your favor long ago, not only as a 
testimony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity 
of sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine enter¬ 
tainments, of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of 
avocations retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, how¬ 
ever, I have finished that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen 
of nature’s force and beneficence, exerted under numerous and formi¬ 
dable disadvantages ; but none equal to that with which you have been 
kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his 
serious poems ; a vein of wit and humor in those of a more festive turn, 
which cannot be too much admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I 
think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment 
renewed and increased. It was my wdsh to have expressed my ap¬ 
probation in verse; but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accomplish that 
agreeable intention. Mr. Stewart, Professor of morals in this Univer¬ 
sity, had formerly read me three of the poems, and I had desired him 
to get my name inserted among the subscribers : but whether this was 
done or not I never could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. 
Blair, but will take care to have the poems communicated to him by 
the intervention of some mutual friend. It has been told me by a 
gentleman, to whom I showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardor, that the whole impression is already 
exhausted. It were therefore much to be wished, for the sake of the 
young man, that a second edition, more numerous than the former, 
could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain that its intrinsic 
merit, and the exertion of the author’s friends, might give it a more 
universal circulation than anything of the kind which has been pub¬ 
lished within my memory.”] 

Mossgiel, ISth November , 1786. 

My dear Sir, 

Inclosed you have “ Tam Samson,” as I intend to print him. I 
am thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
Be’nnight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first. 

I am ever. 

Your much indebted, 

R. B. 




394 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. XXX. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLINE. 

[Burns reached Edinburgh on his first visit on the 28th November. 
Through Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, near Ayr, Burns was intro¬ 
duced to that gentleman’s brother-in-law, Lord Glen cairn, to the Hon. 
Henry Erskine, and other influential people. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer 
in Mauohline, was one of Burns’ chief patrons in Ayrshire.] 

Edinburgh, December Wi, 1786. 

Honored Sir, 

I have paid every attention to your commands, but can only say 
what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- 
lands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S., but for whom I know not; 
Mauchlands, Haugh Mill, etc., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed 
to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought 
for Oswald’s folks. This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late 
ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would 
not trouble you with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no 
sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as 
Thomas a Kempisor John Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to 
see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor 
Robin’s and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and 
the battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of 
Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all 
probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man 
of the world. Through my Lord’s influence it is inserted in the records 
of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe 
for the second edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and 
you shall have some of them next post. I have met, in Mr. Dalrymple, 
of Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls “ a friend that stick- 
eth closer than a brother.” The w^armth with which he interests him¬ 
self in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, 
and the few patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days showed 
for the poor unlucky devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic 
prayers, but you both in prose and verse. 

May cauld ne’er catch you but a hap, 

Nor hunger but in plenty’s lap 1 
Amen 1 


R. B. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


395 


No. XXXI. 

TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., OF ORANGEFIELD. 

[December 10, 1786 ?] 

Dear Sir, 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you, that he 
is determined by a coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me— 
hummed over the rhymes—and as I saw they were extempore, said to 
myself they were very well ; but when I saw at the bottom a name that 
I shall ever value with grateful respect, “I gapit wide, but naething 
spak.” I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction¬ 
bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven 
nights, and spake not a word. . . . 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast ; and as soon as my wonder- 
scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its func¬ 
tions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My fore¬ 
boding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, 
great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences, oc¬ 
curred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of 
the cork rumps—a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the Prot¬ 
estant interest, or St. Peter’s keys to-. 

You want to know how I come on. I am just in. statu quo, or, not 
to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in “ auld use and wont.” The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested 
himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immor¬ 
tality of the soul than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind 
like his can never die. Let the worshipful Squire H. L.,or the Rev¬ 
erend Mass. J. M., go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are 
but ill-digested lumps of chaos—only, one of them strongly tinged with 
bituminous particles and sulphurous effluvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at “ the war of elements, 
the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.”—R. B. 



39^ 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. XXXII. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., 

BANKER, AYR. 

Edinburgh, l^th December , 1786. 

My honored Friend, 

I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give 
you some account of myself and my matters, which by the by is often 
no easy task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se’nnight, and have suf¬ 
fered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache and stomach 
complaint but am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm 
friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord 
Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall re¬ 
member when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed in the 
“Caledonian Hunt,” and entered in their books, that they are to take 
each a copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. 
—I have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my 
avowed patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of Gordon—the 
Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty ^—the Dean of 
Faculty—Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among 
the literati : Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie—the Man of 
Feeling. An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire Bard 
with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. I since have discovered my generous 
unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk ; 
and drank a glass of claret with him by invitation at his own house 
yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I 
suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, 
next post ; when I intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I 
saw his son to-day, and he is very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the peri¬ 
odical paper called the Lounger,^ a dopy of which I here inclose you. 

^ Lady Betty Cunningham, sister of Lord Glencairn. 

^ The paper here alluded to was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated author of 
“The Man of Feeling.” It recognizes in the poems “ a genius of no ordinary rank,” 
remarkable in itself without reference to the natural wonder excited by the fact that 
they were written by a man of such humble rank, without the advantages of a good 
education. “The power of genius,” Mr. Mackenzie proceeds, “is not less admirable 
in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions or in drawing the scenery of 
nature. The intuitive glance with which a writer like Shakspeare discerns the char¬ 
acters of men, with which he catches the many changing hues of life, forms a sort of 
problem in the science of mind, of which it is easier to see the truth than to assign the 
cause. Though I am very far from meaning to compare our rustic bard to Shak- 
speare, yet whoever will read his lighter and more humorous poems, his Dialogue of 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


397 


I was, Sir, when I was first honored with your notice, too obscure ; 
now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly 
into the glare of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honored patron, write you an account of 
my every step ; and better health and more spirits may enable me to 
make it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle. 

I have the honor to be, 

Good Sir, 

Your ever grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. XXXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Edinburgh, December, 2^th, 1786. 

My dear Friend, 

I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your 
letter ; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaint¬ 
ance said of her bastard wean ; she said she “ did na ken wha was the 
father exactly, but she suspected it was some o’ thae bonny blackguard 
smugglers, for it was like them.” So I only say your obliging epistle 
was like you. I inclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your affair 
of sixty copies is also like you; but it would not be like me to comply. 

Your friend’s notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of 
sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles 
and Mr. Parker.—R. B. 


No. XXXIV. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 

WRITER, AYR. 

Edinburgh, December 21th, 1786. 

My dear Friend, 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any for¬ 
giveness—ingratitude to friendship—in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; 
and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited 

the Dogs, his Dedication to G-H-, Esq., his Epistle to a Young Friend, and to 

W-S-, will perceive with what uncommon penetration and sagacity this heaven- 

taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered station, has looked upon men and 
things.” Mackenzie then referred to the misfortunes which, as he had heard most 
probably from Dugald Stewart, had befallen the bard, and expressed a hope that 
some means might be found to provide for him in his native land. 




398 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


majesty, preside over the dull routine of business—a heavily solemn 
oath this!—I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as 
unfit to write a letter of humor, as to write a commentary on the Rev¬ 
elation of St. John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to 
Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and 
raised the second or third persecution, I forget whfch, against the 
Christians, and after throwing the said Apostle John, brother to the 
Apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to distinguish him 
from another James, who was, on some account or other, known by 
the name of James the Less—after throwing him into a caldron of 
boiling oil, from which he was miraculously preserved, he banished the 
poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago, where he was 
gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have 
seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance not very un¬ 
common in story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before you reach this para¬ 
graph, you will have suffered, I inclose you two poems I have carded 
and spun since I passed Glenbuck. 

One blank in the Address to Edinburgh—“ Fair B-,” is heavenly 

Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had 
the honor to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly 
like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the 
great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve on the first day of her 
existence. 

My direction is—care of Andrew Bruce, merchant. Bridge Street. 

R. B. 


No. XXXV. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

/ Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

My Lord, 

As I have but slender pretentions to philosophy, I cannot rise to the 
exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national prej¬ 
udices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a 
Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so feelingly 
alive as the honor and welfare of my country : and as a poet, I have no 
higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life; but never did a heart pant 
more ardently than mine to be distinguished ; though till very lately, 
I looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess 
how much I was gratified with the countenance and approbation of one 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


399 


of my country’s most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called 
on me yesterday on the part of your lordship. i Your munificence, my 
lord, certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments ; but your 
patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not mas¬ 
ter enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some 
impropriety in troubling your lordship with my thanks, but my heart 
whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. 
Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, 
I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest. —R. B. 

No. XXXVI. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, January 14, 1787. 

My honored Friend, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet 
so far gone as Willie Gaw’s Skate, “ past redemption ; ” ^ for I have 
still this favorable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in 
the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I 
ought to do, it teases me eternally till I doit. 

I am still “ dark as was Chaos ” in respect to futurity. My generous 
friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about the lease of 
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately 
bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections 
whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in myxoid neighbor¬ 
hood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land; and though I dare say he 
means to favor me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advanta¬ 
geous bargain that may ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I 
return, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in 
May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful 
Grand Master Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The 
meeting was numerous and elegant; all the different lodges about town 
were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master who presided with 
great solemnity and honor to himself as a gentleman and a mason, among 
other general toasts, gave “ Caledonia, and Caledonia’s Bard, Brother 
Burns,” which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honors 
and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, 
I was downright thunderstruck, and trembling in every nerve, made the 

^ Mr. Wauchope brought him ten guineas as a subscription for two copies of his 
second edition. 

* This is one of a great number of old saws that Burns, when a lad had picked up 
from hfs mother, who had a vast collection of them. 



400 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand 
officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, 
“ Very well indeed ! ” which set me something to rights again. 

I have to-day corrected my 152d page. My best good wishes to Mr. 
Aiken. 

I am ever, dear Sir, 

Your much indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. XXXVII. 


TO THE SAME. 

January —, 1787. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little 
country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a 
sodger, and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! say I to myself, 
with a tide of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon 
o’ Ayr, conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here 
it is— 

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And 1 sae fu’ o’ care ? 


No. XXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[This is an acknowledgment of some extracts which Mrs. Dunlop Had 
sent to Burns from her correspondence with Dr. Moore, author of 
“ Zeluco,” etc.] 

Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 

Madam, 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honored with, 
is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real 
truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib—I wished to have written 
to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but though every day since I re¬ 
ceived yours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has 
constantly pressed on mj" thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set 
about it. I know his fame and character, and I am one of “ the sons 
of little men.” To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a 
merchant’s order, would be disgracing the little character I have ; and 
to write the author of “The View of Society and Manners” a letter of 
sentiment—I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. His kind interposition 
in my behalf I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


401 


the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way 
of subscription for two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention 1 have made of my glorious 
countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted 
my own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the 
opinion of some of the literati here, who honor me with their critical 
strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you ask I can¬ 
not recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have not composed any¬ 
thing on the great Wallace, except what you have seen in print; and 
the inclosed, which I will print in this edition.^ You will see I have 
mentioned some others of the name. When I composed my “ Vision ” 
long ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional 
stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish 
to be able to do justice to the merits of the “saviour of his country,” 
which sooner or later I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet; 
alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities 
deserve some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and 
nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural 
genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company—to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and 
polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and 
crude unpolished ideas on my head—I assure you, Madam, I do not dis¬ 
semble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of 
a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which 
are reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of day, 
has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height, 
where I am absolutely, feeling certain my abilities are inadequate to 
support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the same tide will 
leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not 
say this in the ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. I 
have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy ; and however a 
friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I stand for 
my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. 
I mention this to you once for all to disburden my mind, and I do not 
wish to hear or say more about it. But, 

“ When proud fortune’s ebbing tide recedes,” 

’ Stanzas in the “ Vision,” beginning “ By stately tower or palace fair,” and ending 
with the first Duan. Burns afterwards rejected several of the new stanzas before 
sending the book to press. Those omitted were chiefiy panegyrics on country gentle¬ 
folk who had been kind to him. 




402 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the 
highest, I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, 
looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the 
blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground, with all the eagerness of 
vengeful triumph. 

Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and char¬ 
acter as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether 
you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry 
subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the 
patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace ?—R. B. 

No. XXXIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, January [16^/iF], 1787. 

Sir, 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she 
has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honor of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes 
of authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in 
such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticisms, Sir, 
I receive with reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a 
peccant passage or two that 1 would certainly have altered, were gone to 
the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those 
even who were authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my 
part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please 
my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing 
language and manners shall allow me to be relished and undemtood. 
1 am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as 
few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted 
with the classes of mankind among whom 1 have chiefly mingled, 1 may 
have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, 
which may assist originality of thought. Still 1 know very well the 
novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned 
and polite notice 1 have lately had ; and in a language where Pope and 
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the 
tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and 
Lyttleton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to hope 
for distinguished poetic fame.^^—R. B. 

1 In his reply to this letter dated Jan. 23d, 1787, Dr. Moore says : “ If 1 may judge of 
the author’s disposition from his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet, he 
has not the irritable temper ascribed to that race of men by one of their own number. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


403 


No, XL. 

TO THE REV. G. LAWRIE. 

NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

[Mr. Lawrie had written to Burns, urging him to visit Blacklock, the 
blind poet, and added a few kindly words of warning as to the tempta¬ 
tions of the new life on which the Poet had entered.] 

Edinburgh, February 6th, 1787. 

Reverend and dear Sir, 

When I look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches 
me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will 
not trouble you with any account by way of apology, of my hurried 
life and distracted attention : do me the justice to believe that my delay 
by no means proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall 
feel for you, the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and rever¬ 
ence for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I 
do not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are 
dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but in reality, I 
have no great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. 
Novelty may attract the attention of mankind awhile ; to it I owe my 
present eclat; but 1 see the time not far distant when the popular tide 
which has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, 
shall recede with silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, 
to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the 
affectation of modesty ; I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am 
prepared for it, I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, im¬ 
partial estimate of my intellectual powers before I cam'e here; 1 have, 
not added, since I came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and 
I trust I shall take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of 
my unnoticed early years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom 1 see very often, I have found what 1 would 
have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent heart. 

By far the most agreeable hours 1 spend in Edinburgh must be placed 
to the account of Miss Lawrie and her pianoforte. 1 cannot help re- 

whom you have the happiness to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression.— 
Indeed the poetical beauties, however original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, 
are not all 1 admire in your works : the love of your native country, that feeling sen¬ 
sibility to all the objects of humanity, and the independent spirit which breathes 
through the whole, give me a most favorable impression of the Poet, and have made 
me often regret that I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which would have 
been my seeing the author, last summer, when 1 was longer in Scotland than 1 have 
been for many years.” 


18—BuriiS“—R 




404 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


peating to you and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the 
celebrated “Man of Feeling,” paid to Miss Lawrie the other night at 
the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till 
I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my 
respects to her. On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me who 
she was ; I told him ’twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in 
the west country. He returned, there was something very striking, to 
his idea, in her appearance. On my desiring to know what it was, he 
was pleased to say “She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred 
lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl.” 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret’s.—R. B. 

No. XLI. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, February 15f/i, 1787. 

Sir, 

Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge 
the honor you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the 
plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance 
with a country gentleman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me ; I 
have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment; 
but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in 
the eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble 
at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover 
self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see with 
frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the 
honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height 
altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honor Miss Williams has done me, please, Sir, return her in 
my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought 
of paying her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless 
despondency. I had never before heard of her; but the other day I 
got her Poems, which for several reasons, some belonging to the head, 
and others the offspring of the heart, give a me great deal of pleasure. 
I have little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, two character¬ 
istic features in her poetry—the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
and the querulous, somber tenderness of “ time-settled sorrow.” 

I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell why.^ 

R. B. 

1 Dr. Moore, writing on 28th February, says “ You are a great favorite in my 
family ; and this is a higher compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It includes 
almost all the professions, and of course is a proof that your writings are adapted to 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


405 


No. XLII. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

[The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait to which the 
Poet alludes, was painted by Alexander Nasmyth—the work in each 
case being done gratuitously. The engraving has a more melancholy 
air than the picture, and is of a swarthier hue ; this change was made 
by the engraver, who caused the Poet to sit to him, and finished the 
copper from his face, in preference to working from the picture.] 

Edinburgh, February 1787. 

My Honored Friend, 

I will soon be with you now, in guid black prent;—in a week or 
ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub¬ 
scribers’ names; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, 
they must be sent into Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by 
an eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, I will appear in 
my book, looking like all other fools to my title-page.—R. B. 


No. XLIII. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN., 

Edinburgh, 1787. 

My Lord, 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, which I was told 
was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a “human face divine.” The inclosed stanzas I 
intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, 
could I have been so happy as to procure one with anything of a like¬ 
ness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like 
a material object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power 
to say to a friend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. 
Allow me, my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of benevolence, 
by all the powers and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition. I owe much to your lordship ; and, what 

various tastes and situations. My youngest son who is at Winchester School, writes 
to me that he is translating some stanzas of your ‘ Hallowe’en’ into Latin verse, for 
the benefit of his comrades.” 



4o6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




has not in some other instances always been the case with me, the 
weight of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust I have a heart as 
independent as your lordship’s, than which I can say nothing more; 
and I would not be beholden to favors that would crucify my feelings. 
Your dignified character in life, and manner of supporting that char¬ 
acter, are flattering to my pride ; and I would be jealous of the purity 
of my grateful attachment, where I was under the patronage of one of 
the much favored sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they 
were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow me, 
then, my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the 
world how much I have the honor to be. 

Your lordship’s highly indebted. 

And ever grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. XLIV. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[The Earl of Buchan had advised Burns to seek inspiration for his 
muse in a pilgrimage to the chief battle-fields of Scotland, in the hope, it 
was suspected, that Ancrum Moor and his own family might be duly 
celebrated.] 

My Lord, 

The honor your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice 
In yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever gratefully remember :— 

“ Praise from thy lips ’tis mine with joy to boast, 

They best can give it who deserve it most.” 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, when you ad¬ 
vise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my 
native country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, 
where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken 
ranks to victory and fame; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the 
deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthu¬ 
siastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides 
across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words :— 

“I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open 
the ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give 
you pain: I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


407 


your heart. 1 will not mention how many of my salutary advices you 
have despised : I have given you line upon line and precept upon pre¬ 
cept ; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth 
and character, with audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the 
path, contemning me to my face : you know the consequences. It is 
not yet three months since home was so hot for you that you were on 
the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, 
but to hide your misfortune. 

“ Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to 
the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o’-wisp 
meteors of fancy and whim till they bring you once more to the brink 
of ruin ? 1 grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a 

step from the veriest poverty ; but still it is half a step from it. If all 
that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, 
let the call of Pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the 
iron gripe of ruthless oppression : you know how you bear the galling 
sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the 
comforts of life, independence, and character on the one hand ; I tender 
you civility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not 
insult your understanding by bidding you make a choice.” 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, 
and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, 
my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear- 
loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her 
distinguished sons who have honored me so much with their patronage 
and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever 
distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw-forth the swelling 
tear.—R. B. 


No. XLV. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.i 

Edinburgh, March 21s^, 1787. 

My ever dear old Acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare 
say you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to old, 
and once dear connections. The truth is, I was determined to write a 
good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes 
says, all that. 1 thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I 


‘ Father of the Rev. Dr. Candlish, of Edinburgh. 




4o8 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just 
sit down to tell you so. Don’t give yourself credit, though, that the 
strength of your logic scares me : the truth is, 1 never mean to meet 
you on that ground at all. You have shown me one thing which was 
to be demonstrated : that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affecta¬ 
tion of singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since 
you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old women’s 
stories, ventured in “the daring path Spinosa trod but experience 
of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, made me glad to 
grasp at revealed religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul’s phrase, “ The old man with his deeds,” 
as when we were sporting about the “Lady Thorn.” I shall be four 
weeks here yet at least; and so 1 shall expect to hear from you ; w^elcome 
sense, welcome nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 


No. XLVI. 

TO-. 

[One of the first things Burns did on his arrival in Edinburgh was, 
according to Allan Cunningham, to seek out the lowly grave of Fer- 
gusson, when kneeling down he kissed the sod. In February, 1787, he 
wrote to the managers of the Kirk and Kirkyard Funds of Canongate, 
offering to “ lay a simple stone over his (Fergusson’s) revered ashes, to 
remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame,”—an offer which 
was cordially accepted.] 

Edinburgh, March, 1787. 

My dear Sir. 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful 
fellow, having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you : but if you knew 
what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your 
good heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the by there 
is nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccount¬ 
able as that thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur 
powers efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the 
beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are to the workings of pas¬ 
sion as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervor of the rising sun : and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of 
the wicked deed over, than, amidst the bitter native consequences of 
folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up starts conscience, and har¬ 
rows us with the feelings of the damned. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


409 


The inscription on the stone is as follows :— 

“HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

“Born, September 5th, 1751—Died, 16th September, 1774. 

"No sculptur’d marble here, nor pompous lay, 

‘ No storied urn nor animated bust; ’ 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way 
To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.’’ 

On the other side of the stone is as follows :— 

“ By special grant of the Managers to Robert Burns, who erected this 
stone, this burial place is to remain forever sacred to the memory of 
Robert Fergusson.” ' 


No. XLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinbrugh, March 22d, 1787. 

Madam, 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while 
ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom ; 
now I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly 
advices—I will not give them the cold name of criticisms—I receive 
with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before 
had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among 
the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim 
the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn to 
whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honor of giving me 
his strictures: his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, i 
follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects ; there 
I can give you no light. It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
Was roll’d together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound.’’ 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far my highest pride; to 
continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes 
and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no 
dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of 
business, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles ; to 
wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; and to muse by the 



410 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


stately towers of venerable ruins, once the honored abodes of her 
heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough with 
life ; ’tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for: and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the 
individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, shining abilities, and 
some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character ; but 
where God and nature have entrusted the welfare of others to his care ; 
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far 
gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connec¬ 
tions will not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by 
my authorship ; * with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the plough, and, 
if I can meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I 
do not intend to give up poetry ; being bred to labor, secures me inde¬ 
pendence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only 
enjoyment. If my practise second my resolution, I shall have princi¬ 
pally at heart the serious business of life ; but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that 
dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice of 
my country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honored Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and 
his views, native as they are in his own bosom.—R. B. 


No. XLVIII. 
TO THE SAME. 


Madam, 


Edinburgh, \Uh April, 1787. 


There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods 
of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part. Madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and too little 
prudence for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your letter, 
but 

“ Rude am I in speech, 

And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself—” 


so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I 
shall just lay my hand on my heart and say I hope I shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 


^ For the new edition of the Poems, which appeared on 31st April, 1787, there were 
1,500 subscribers, engaging for 9,800 copies. Bums cleared about £500 by the whole. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


411 


I come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders 1 
shall punctually attend to ; only by the way, 1 must tell you that 1 was 
paid before for Dr. Moore’s and Miss Williams’s copies, through the 
medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle 
when 1 have the honor of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith ^ was just gone to London the morning before 1 received 
your letter to him.—R. B. 


No. XLIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23rd April, 1787. 

1 RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. 
I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of 
gratitude. 1 thank you, Sir, for the honor you have done me ; and to 
my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with 
your book is what I have in common with the world ; but to regard 
these volumes as a mark of the author’s friendly esteem, is a still more 
supreme gratification. 

1 leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and, after 
a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden 
Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, etc., I shall return to my rural 
shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 1 have formed many 
intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too 
tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to 
offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent 
lights of genius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this 
tangent flight of mine were over, and 1 were returned to my wonted 
leisurely mption in my old circle, I may probably endeavor to return 
her poetic compliment in kind.—R. B. 

No. L. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30^h April, 1787. 

-Your criticisms. Madam, I understand very well, and could 

have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess 
that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, 

* Adam Smith, author of “ Wealth of Nations.” 




412 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


have so flattered those who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth 
and power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, either in 
prose or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, etc., as all these respec¬ 
tive gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the 
world by and by—illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy. Madam, that some of my own favorite pieces are dis¬ 
tinguished by your particular approbation. For my “ Dream,” which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in four weeks, 
or less, to have the honor of appearing, at Dunlop, in its defense in 
person. 

R. B. 


No. LI. 

TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787. 

Reverend and much respected Sir, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without 
troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the em¬ 
barrassment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest 
shades of life to the glare of remark ; and honored by the notice of 
those illustrious names of my country whose w^orks, while they are ap¬ 
plauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. How¬ 
ever the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might at¬ 
tract notice, and honor me with the acquaintance of the permanent 
lights of genius and literature, those who are truly benefactors of the 
immortal nature of man, I knew very well that my utmost merit was 
far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the 
novelty was over ; I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost even 
neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo’s work' for me, done on 
Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart-warm 
gratitude I am, etc.®—R. B. 

1 The portrait of the Poet after Nasmyth. 

* A few sentences of Blair’s reply may be quoted, partly as testimony to Burns’ be¬ 
haviour in the capital, and partly as an example of the pretentious patronage of 
commonplace men which he had to endure Your situation, as you say, was in¬ 
deed very singular ; and in being brought out, all at once, from the shades of deepest 
privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a 
severe trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well: and, as far as 1 have known 
or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your 
character and behavior. You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


413 


No. LII. 

TO MR. W. NICOL, 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 

Carlisle, June Isf, 1787. 

Kind, honest-hearted Willie, 

I’m sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin’, e’en as 
forjesket and forniaw’d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion 
o’ my land lowperlike stravaguin sin the sorrowfu’ hour that I sheuk 
hands an parted with auld Reekie. 

My auld, ga’d gleyde o’ a meere has huchyall’dup hill and down brae 
in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi’ me.^ 
It’s true, she’s as poor’s a sang-mrker and as hard’s a kirk, and tip- 
per-taipers when she taks the gate, first like a lady’s gentlewoman in a 
minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she’s a yauld, poutherie Girran 
for a’ that, and has a stomack like Willie Stalker’s meere that wad hae 
digeested tumbler-wheels, for she’ll whip me aff her five stimparts o’ 
the best aits at a down-sittin and ne’er fash her thumb. When ance 
her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl’d, 
she beets to, beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could 
wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks ridin 
at fifty mile a day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and 
Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander’d owre a’ the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae 
forgather’d wi’ mony a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar’d hizzie. I 
met wi’ twa dink quines in particlar, ane o’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel 

of life; and I trust will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence and honor. 
You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. In the midst of those employ¬ 
ments which your situation will render proper, you will not I hope neglect to pro¬ 
mote that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attending to such productions of 
it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a 
haste to come forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents. 
For on any second production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will very 
much depend. There is no doubt a gloss of novelty, which time wears off. As you 
very properly hint yourself, you are not to be surprised, if in your rural retreat you do 
not find yourself surrounded with that glare of notice and applause which here shone 
upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a philosopher. 
He must lay his account, that any one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it is always best to 
overlook and despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, and to dis¬ 
appear from public view. He wlil not affect to shine always ; that he may at proper 
seasons come forth with more advantage and energy. He will not think himself 
neglected if he be not always praised.” 

> This mare was the Poet’s favorite, Jenny Geddes. 




414 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


lass, baith braw and bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, 
tight, weelfar’d winch, as blythe’s a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and 
as sweet and modest’s a new blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They 
were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o’ them had as 
muckle smeddum and rumblgumtion as the half o’ some presbytries 
that you and 1 baith ken. They play’d me sick a deevil o’ a savie that 
I daur say if ray harigals were* turn’d out, ye wad see twa nicks i’ the 
heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock. 

1 was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat 
myself sae noutouriously bitchify’d the day after kail-time, that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a’ our common friens, especial 
Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o’ Jock’s Lodge. 

I’ll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the 
branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi’ you, Willie 1 Amen ! 

R. B. 


No. LlII. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchline, June \ Wi, 1787. 

My ever dear Sir, 

I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. 
If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour’s 
family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it. 

Give me a spirit like my favorite hero, Milton’s Satan :— 


“ Hail, horrors 1 ” hail, 

Infernal world I and thou profonndest Hell, 

Receive thy new possessor I he who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time > ” 

I cannot settle to my mind. Farming, the only thing of which I 
know anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of 
that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix, I 
will go for Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I 
would only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall 
compensate my little ones for the stigma I have brought on their names. 

R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


415 


No. LIV. 

TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ. 

Mauchline, June lUh, 1787. 

My dear Friend, 

I am now arrived safe in my native country after a very agree¬ 
able jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all my friends well. I break¬ 
fasted with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith; and was 
highly pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most 
excellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been -with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him again 
in August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of my hard¬ 
ship, my hopes in that business are rather mended ; but still they are 
but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks—Mr. Burnside, the clergy¬ 
man, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth command¬ 
ment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humor, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
manner and heart: in short—but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of anything gen¬ 
erous ; but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the ser¬ 
vility of my plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) 
since I returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether 
with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton, wliich I carry per¬ 
petually about with me, in order to study the sentiments—the daunt¬ 
less magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding independence, the desperate 
daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that great personage, Satan. 
’Tis true, I have just now a little cash; but I am afraid the star that 
hitherto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith, 
that noxious planet so baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I 
much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. Misfortune dodges the 
path of human life; the poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged 
in, and unfit for the walks of business; add to all, that thoughtless 
follies and hare-brained whims, like so many ignes fatui, eternally di¬ 
verging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle with step- 
bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, 
pop, “ he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.” God grant this may 
be an unreal picture with respect to me I but should it not, I have very 
little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute 
my heart bids me pay you—the many ties of acquaintance and friend? 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


416 


ship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, 
and, damn them, they are almost all of them of such frail contexture, 
that I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse 
breeze of fortune; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confi¬ 
dence for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me “ through good report 
and bad report ”—the love which Solomon emphatically says “ is strong 
as death.” My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our 
common friends. 

P. S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July.—R. B. 


No. LV. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Burns was now on his first tour in the Highlands. His unsettled 
state, dissatisfaction with his present circumstances, and anxiety for 
the future, gave a somewhat morose, distempered turn to his thoughts, 
except when care was drowned in wild jollity.] 

Arrachar, June 28i/i, 1787. 

My dear Sir, 

I write this on my tour through a country where savage streams 
tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was 
Inverary—to-morrow night’s stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have 
answered your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins. 

R. B. 


No. LVI. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

LINLITHGOW. 

June doth, 1787. 

My dear Friend, 

On our return, at a Highland gentleman’s hospitable mansion, we 
fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in 
the morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid 
formal movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at inter¬ 
vals ; then we flew at “ Bab at the Bowster,” “ Tullochgorum,” “ Loch 
Erroch Side,”^ etc., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws 
prognosticating a storm in a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, 
we ranged round the bowl till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a 


* Scotch reels. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


417 


few minutes that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp 
of day peering over the towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; 
our worthy landlord’s son held the bowl; each man a full glass in his 
hand ; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas- 
a-Rhymer’s prophecies I suppose. After a small refreshment of the 
gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and 
reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow’s 
house, and consequently, pushed the bottle; when we went out to 
mount our horses, we found ourselves “ No vera fou but gay lie yet.” 
My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by came a 
Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which had 
never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be out¬ 
galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. My 
companions, though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but 
my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past 
the Highlandman in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter: just 
as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before 
me to mar my progress, when down came his horse, and threw his 
rider’s breekless a—e in a dipt edge; and down came Jenny Geddes 
over all, and my hardship between her and the Highlandman’s horse. 
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that matters 
were not so bad as might well have been expected ; so I came off with 
a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of 
sobriety for the future. 

I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. 
I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle 
fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon. I was going 
to say, a wife too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a 
younger son of the house of Parnassus, and, like other younger sons of 
great families, I may intrigue if I choose to run all risks, but must not 
marry. 

I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one indeed, 
of my former happiness; that eternal propensity I always had to fall in 
love. My heart no more glows with feverish rapture. I have no para¬ 
disiacal evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying 
inhabitants of this weary world. I have only * * * *. This last is 
one of your distant acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant man¬ 
ners ; and in the train of some great folks whom you know, has seen the 
politest quarters of Europe. I do like her a good deal; but what piques 
me is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I fre¬ 
quently visited her when I was in-and after passing regularly the 

intermediate degrees between the distant formal bow and the familiar 
grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to talk of friend- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


418 


ship in rather ambiguous terms ; and after her return to-, I wrote 

to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words farther I suppose 
than ever I intended, flew off in a tangent of female dignity and reserve, 
like a mounting lark in an April morning; and wrote me an answer 
which measured me out very completely what an immense way I had 
to travel before I could reach the climate of her favor. But I am an 
old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent 
reply, as brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop, down at my 
foot, like Corporal Trim’s hat. 

As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise sayings, 
and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be recorded in 
a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chronicles of your memory, by 

R. B. 


No. LVII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

Mossgiel, July 1th. 1787. 

My dear Richmond, 

I am all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder 
of right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to an¬ 
swer his indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the 
practise of the court so different from the practise in which he has for 
so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any 
connections truly of that kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble 
for his sake. His chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so 
firmly by him, to such good purpose, here, like other accomplices in 
robbery and plunder, will, now the piratical business is blown, in all 
probability turn king’s evidence, and then the devil’s bagpiper will 
touch him off “ Bundle and go.” 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all this ; if not, 
I know you will swear to every word I said about him. 

I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and Inverary, and 
running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- 
landman ; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or 
leather, zigzagged across before my old spavin’d hunter, whose name 
is Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and 
down came Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got such a skinful of 
bruises and wounds, that I shall be at least four weeks before 1 dare 
venture on my journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline since 
you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as for¬ 
merly, or, if heaven pleases, more so; but, at all events, 1 trust you 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


419 


will let me know of course how matters stand with you, well or ill. 
’Tis but poor consolation to tell the world when matters go wrong ; but 
you know very well your connexion and mine stand on a different foot¬ 
ing. 1 am ever, my dear Friend, yours, R. B. 


No, LVIll. 

TO DR. MOORE.i 

Mauchline, August 2d, 1787. 

Sir, 

For some months past I have been rambling over the country, 
but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as 
I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable 
fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My 
name has made some little noise in this country; you have done me the 
honor to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and 1 think a 
faithful account of what character of a man 1 am, and how I came by 
that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. 1 will give 
you an honest narrative, though I know it will be often at my own 
expense ; for I assure you. Sir, 1 have, like Solomon, whose character, 
excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 1 sometimes think 1 re¬ 
semble,—I have, 1 say, like him turned my eyes to behold madness and 
folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicat¬ 
ing friendship. After you have perused these pages, should you think 
them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the 
poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, 
arising from a suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character 
which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, 1 got acquainted in the Herald’s oflSce ; 
and, looking through that granary of honors, 1 there found almost 
every name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

“ My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro’ scoundrels ever since the flood.” 

Gules, purpure, argent, etc., quite disowned me. 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was 
thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large; where, after many 
years’ wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quan- 

^ The original copy of this letter transmitted to Dr. Moore is now in the British 
Museum. It differs very much from the printed version. 




420 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


tity of observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of 
my little pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who understood 
men, their manners and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, un¬ 
gainly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are disqual¬ 
ifying circumstances ; consequently, I was born a very poor man’s son. 
For the first six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to 
a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighborhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of the 
little underlings about a farmhouse; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his children under his own eye, 
till they could discern between good and evil; so with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured on a small farm on his 
estate. At those years, I was by no means a favorite with anybody. 
I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn, sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot^ piety. I say 
idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the school¬ 
master some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and by 
the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, 
verbs and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, 1 owe much 
to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her igno¬ 
rance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest col¬ 
lection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, 
fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, 
dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, 
dragons and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this 
hour in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp lookout in 
suspicious places; and though nobody can be more skeptical than 1 
am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake 
off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking 
pleasure in, was “The Vision of Mirza,” and a hymn of Addison’s 
beginning, “ How are thy servants blest, O Lord!” I particularly 
remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish ear— 

“ For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave—” 

I met with these pieces in Mason’s English Collection, one of my school¬ 
books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books 1 ever read since, were “The Life 
of Hannibal,” and the “ History of Sir William Wallace.” Hannibal 
gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in raptures up 
and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself 
tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scot- 

* Idiot for idiotic. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


421 


tish prejudice into ray veins, which will boil along there till the flood¬ 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad, 
and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, 
between sermons, at funerals, etc., used a few years afterwards to 
puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a 
hue and cry of heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social disposi¬ 
tion, when not checked by some modifications of spited pride, was like 
our catechism definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I 
formed several connexions with other younkers, who possessed superior 
advantages; the youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal of 
parts in which they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, 
alas ! I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly 
at this green age, that our young gentry have a just sense of the 
immense distance between them and their ragged playfellows. It 
takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man that 
proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, stupid 
devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who were, perhaps, 
born in the same village. My young superiors never insulted the 
clouterly appearance of my plough-boy carcass, the two extremes of 
which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. 
They would give me stray volumes of books ; among them, even then, 
I could pick up some observations, and one, whose heart, I am sure, 
not even the“Munny Begum’’scenes have tainted, helped me to a 
little French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, 
as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to 
me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more serious evils. My 
father’s generous master died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; and 
to clench the misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat 
for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale of “Twa Dogs.” 
My father was advanced in life when he married ; I w^as the eldest of 
seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
labor. My father’s spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. 
There was a freedom in his lease in two years more, and to weather 
these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly: I 
was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was 
a brother (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me 
to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed these 
scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I: my indignation yet 
boils at the recollecton of the scoundrel factor’s insolent threatening 
letters, which used to set us all in tears. 

This kind of life—the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing 



422 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


moil of a galley slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before 
which period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our 
country custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in 
the labors of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner was a 
bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of 
English denies me the power of doing her justice in that language, but 
you know the Scottish idiom : she was a “ bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass.” 
In short, she, altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse 
prudence, and bookworm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
joys, our dearest blessing here below I How she caught the contagion 
1 cannot tell; you medical people talk much of infection from breath¬ 
ing the same air, the touch, etc.; but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed, 1 did not know myself why 1 liked so much to loiter behind 
with her, when returning in the evening from our labors; why the 
tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an ^olian harp; 
and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious rattan, when 1 
looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle- 
stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung 
sweetly ; and it was her favorite reel to which I attempted giving an 
embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine 
that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who had 
Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song which was said to be com¬ 
posed by a small country laird’s son, on one of his father’s maids, with 
whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as 
well as he; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, 
his father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than 
myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my 
only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest 
enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his 
lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the 
country. The nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a 
little ready money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, 
otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. For four years 
we lived comfortably here, but a difference commencing between him 
and his landlord as to terms, after three years’ tossing and whirling in 
the vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a 
jail, by a consumption, which, after two years’ promises, kindly stepped 
in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from troubling 
and where the weary are at rest! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm, that my little story 
is most eventful, I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


423 


most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish—no solitaire was less 
acquainted with the ways of the world. What I know of ancient 
story was gathered from Salmon’s and Guthrie’s Geographical Gram¬ 
mars ; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners of literature, 
and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope’s Works, 
some Plays of Shakespeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan¬ 
theon, Locke’s Essay on the Human Understanding, Stackhouse’s 
History of the Bible, Justice’s British Gardener’s Directory, Boyle’s 
Lectures, Allan Ramsay’s Works, Taylor’s Scripture Doctrine of Origi¬ 
nal Sin, a Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey’s Medita¬ 
tions, had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs was 
my vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my cart, or walking to 
labor, song by song, verse by verse; carefully noting the true, tender, 
or sublime, from affectation and fustian. 1 am convinced I owe to 
this practise much of my critic-craft, such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a 
country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I 
repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was 
subject to strong passions; from that instance of disobedience in me, 
he took a sort of dislike to me, which, 1 believe, was one cause of the 
dissipation which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, 
comparatively with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of 
Presbyterian country life; for though the will-o’-wisp meteors of 
thoughtless whim were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within 
the line of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want 
an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the 
blind gropings of Homer’s Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw 
my father’s situation entailed on me perpetual labor. The only two 
openings by which I could enter the temple of fortune were the gate 
of niggardly economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain-making. 
The first is so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze myself 
into it: the last I always hated—there was contamination in the very 
entrance! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong ap¬ 
petite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of 
observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochon- 
driasm that made me fiy solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, 
my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, 
and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense; 
and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcom^ guest 
where 1 visited, or any great wonder that always, where two or three 
met together, there was 1 among them. But far beyond all other im- 




424 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


pulses of my heart, was un penchant d Vadordble moitie du genre 
humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted 
up by some goddess or other; and, as in every other warfare in this 
world, my fortune was various ; sometimes I was received with favor, 
and sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at 
defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my labors than while I was 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting 
confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that 
recommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare 
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of 
the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues 
of half the courts of Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand seems 
to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the 
favorite theme of my song; and is with difficulty restrained from 
giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my com¬ 
peers, the humble inmates of the farmhouse and cottage: but the 
grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the 
name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labor and poverty they 
are matters of the most serious nature ; to them the ardent hope, the 
stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and most deli¬ 
cious parts of their enjoyment. 

Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my 
mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer i on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to learn 
mensuration, surveying, dialing, etc., in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. 
The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it some¬ 
times happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes 
of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to 
me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my 
glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on 
with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a 
month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fij- 
lette, who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and 
set me off at a tangent from the spheres of my studies. I, however, 
struggled on with my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but step¬ 
ping into the garden one charming noon to take the sun’s altitude, 
there I met my angel— 

* “ Like Prosperpine gathering flowers. 

Herself a fairer flower- 

* Seventeenth Summer in the MS., Dr. Currie has written above it in pencil, 
“ Nineteenth or Seventeenth.” 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


425 


It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The re¬ 
maining week I stayed I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay 
in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest 
and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was en¬ 
larged with the very important addition of Thomson’s and Shenstone’s 
Works: I had seen human nature in a new phasis; and I engaged 
several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of Queen Anne’s reign, and I pored over them most 
devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me, and 
a comparison between them and the composition of most of my corre¬ 
spondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though 
I had not three farthings’ worth of business in the world, yet almost 
every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding 
son of the day-book and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. 
Vive Vamour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. 
The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; 
Sterne and Mackenzie—“ Tristram Shandy " and the “ Man of Feeling ” 
—were my bosom favorites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my 
mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humor of the hour. 
I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or 
other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the 
work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up 
raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the 
conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! None of 
the rhymes of those days are in print, except, “ Winter, a dirge, ’ the 
eldest of my printed pieces ; “ The Death of Poor Maillie,” “ John Bar¬ 
leycorn,” and songs first, second, and third. Song second was the 
ebullition of that passion which ended the forementioned school-busi¬ 
ness. 

My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly through 
whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighboring town (Irvine), to learn his trade. 
This was an unlucky affair. My . . . and to finish the whole, as 
we were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire 
and burned to ashes, and 1 was left, like a true poet, not worth a six 
pence. 

I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were 
gathering thick round my father’s head ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in consumption ; and to crown my distresses, a 




420 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


belle jille, whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in 
the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of morti¬ 
fication. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal 
file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, 
that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by 
the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus—depart from me, 
ye cursed ! 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the 
principal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed 
with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of mis¬ 
fortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in 
the neighborhood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel 
education, with a view of bettering his situation in life. The patron 
dying just as he was ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow 
in despair went to sea; where, after a variety of good and ill-fortune, 
a little before I was acquainted with him he had been set on shore by 
an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of 
everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow’s story without adding, 
that he is at this time master of a large West-Indiaman belonging to 
the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every 
manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded ; I had 
pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowl¬ 
edge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention 
to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than 
myself where woman was the presiding star; but he spoke of illicit 
love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with hor¬ 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and the consequence was, 
that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the “ Poet’s Welcome.” ^ 
My reading only increased while in this town by two stray volumes of 
Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave me some 
idea of novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, 
I had given up ; but meeting with Fergusson’s Scottish Poems, I strung 
anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigor. When my father 
died, his all went among the hell-hounds that growl in the kennel of 
of justice ; but we made a shift to collect a little money in the family 
amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a 
neighboring farm. My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, 
as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and every 
sober qualification, he was far my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, “ Come, go to, I will be 

» Rob the Rhymer’s Welcome to his Bastard Child.*’ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


427 


wise ! ” I read farming books, I calculated crops; I attended markets ; 
and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe 
1 should’ have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. 
This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, “ like the dog to his vomit, 
and the sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire.” 

I now began to be known in the neighborhood as a maker of rhymes. 
The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light, was a burlesque 
lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of 
them, dramatis personae in my “ Holy Fair.” I had a notion myself 
that the piece had some merit; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy 
of it to a friend, who was very fond of such things, and told him that 
I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty 
clever. With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met 
with a roar of applause. Holy Willie’s Prayer ” next made its appear¬ 
ance, and alarmed the kirk session so much, that they held several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might 
be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wander¬ 
ings led me on another side, within point-blank shot of their heaviest 
metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, 
“The Lament.” This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot 
yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the 
principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the 
chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my part 
of the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine ; and 
made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But be¬ 
fore leaving my native country forever, I resolved to publish my 
poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power ; 
I thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea that I should be 
called a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears—a 
poor negro-driver—or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and 
gone to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu as 
I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my 
works as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their 
favor. It ever was my opinion that the mistakes and blunders, both in 
a rational and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily 
guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know myself 
had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself alone; 1 
balanced myself with others; 1 watched every means of information, 
to see how much ground I occupied as a man and as a poet; 1 studied 
assiduously Nature’s design in my formation—where the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confident my 
poems would meet with some applause; but at the worst, the 


18—Burns—S 



428 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty 
of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hun¬ 
dred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred 
and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met with 
from the public ; and besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly 
twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as 1 was thinking of 
indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As soon 
as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from 
the Clyde, for 

“ Hungry ruin had me in the wind.” 

I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all 
the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the mer¬ 
ciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my 
few friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed 
the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia—“ The gloomy night 
is gathering fast,” when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, 
overthrew all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic am¬ 
bition. The doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had 
not dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement 
in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I posted 
for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of intro¬ 
duction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting infiuence 
in my zenith, for once made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind 
Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, 
the Earl of Glencairn. Oublie moi, grand Dieu, si jamais je Voublie! 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh 1 was in a new world; I 
mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I 
was all attention to “ catch ” the characters and “ the manners living 
as they rise.” Whether I have profited, time will show. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. Her very elegant 
and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requi¬ 
site in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.—R. B. 

No. LIX. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Stirling, 2Uh August, 1787. 

My dear Sir, 

I intended to have written you from Edinburgh, and now write you 
from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, 
with a truly original, but very worthy man* a Mr. Nicol, one of the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


429 


masters of the High-school in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday 
morning, and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrow- 
stouness, Falkirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morning 1 knelt 
at the tomb of Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
Wallace ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for Old Caledonia 
over the hole in a blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his 
royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn ; and just now, from 
Stirling Castle, I have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of 
the windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting 
the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very strong, but so 
very late that there is no harvest, except a ridge or two perhaps in ten 
miles, all the way I have traveled from Edinburgh. _ 

I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. 1 will be at least three 
weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and have many 
people to call for. 

My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow-saint; 
and Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope Hughoc is going on and pros¬ 
pering with God and Miss M’Causlin. 

If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every 
other post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business like this scrawl, the less 
and seldomer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever 
shall be, 

My dear Sir, 

Your obliged, 

R. B. 


No. LX. 


TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[Mr. Tait, of Harvieston, was a connexion of Gavin Hamilton ; Mrs. 
Tait, who was then dead, Mrs. Hamilton (Gavin’s stepmother) who 
presided over the household at Harvieston, and Mrs. Chalmers, were 
sisters.] 

Stirling, 28th August, 1787. 

My dear Sir, 

Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am delighted with their ap¬ 
pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, etc., but no harvest at 
all yet, except, in one or two places, an old wife’s ridge. Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town up the meandering Devon’s banks, to 
pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
we made a party to go and see the famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable 
cascade in the Devon, about five miles above Harvieston: and after 



430 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


spending one of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned 
to Stirling in the evening. They are a family, Sir ; though 1 had not 
had any prior tie, though they had not been the brother and sisters of a 
certain generous friend of mine, I would never forget them. I am told 
you have not seen them these several years, so you can have very little 
Idea of what these young folks now are. Your brother is as tall as you 
are, but slender rather than otherwise ; and I have the satisfaption to 
inform you that he is getting the better of those consumptive symptoms 
which I suppose you know were threatening him. His make, and par¬ 
ticularly his manner, resemble you, but he will still have a finer face. 
(1 put in the word still, to please Mrs. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, 
and at the same time a just idea of that respect that man owes to man, 
and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features in his char¬ 
acter ; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart 
that might adorn the breast of a poet I Grace has a good figure, and 
the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in her 
person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and 
your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved 
at first; but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the 
native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observa¬ 
tion. Of Charlotte ‘ 1 cannot speak in common terms of admiration : 
she is not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is elegant; her features 
not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness and the settled com¬ 
placency of good nature in the highest degree; and her complexion, 
now that she has happily recovered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
Burnet’s. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was 
exactly Dr. Donne’s mistress:— 

-“ Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wronght, 

Tliat one would almost say her body thought.” 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, 
and a noble mind. 

1 do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter you. 1 
mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm 
might own with pride; then why do you not keep up more correspond¬ 
ence with these so amiable young folks ? I had a thousand questions 
to answer about you. I had to describe the little ones with the minute¬ 
ness of anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told them that 
John was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was 
going on still very pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her from 
them that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be good. Miss 


Daughter of Mrs. Hamilton. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


431 


Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting 
with Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie * being rather a little alarm¬ 
ingly ill of a sore throat somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

1 shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful com¬ 
pliments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. I 
shall probably write him from some stage or other. 

1 am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 


TO MR. WALKER, 

BLAIR OP ATHOLE. 


[Mr, Josiah Walker, afterwards Professor, had met Burns at Edin¬ 
burgh, and was then engaged at Blair Athol as a tutor. He introduced 
Burns to the Athole family, and it was in commemoration of his very 
kind reception that the Poet wrote the piece accompanying this letter, 
“The Humble Petition of Bruar-water.” Mrs. Graham and Miss Cath- 
cart, mentioned below, were sisters of the Duchess.) 


Inverness, Uh September, 1787. 

My dear Sir, 

I have just time to write the foregoing, and to tell you that it was 
(at least most part of it) the effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for 1 have endeavored to brush it up 
as well as Mr. NicoFs chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. 
It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet 
pays his debts of honor or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family 
of Athole, of the first kind, 1 shall evei' proudly boast; what 1 owe of 
the last, so help me God in my hour of need! 1 shall never forget. 

The “ little angel-band I ” I declare I prayed for them very sincerely 
to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I 
saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling 
little seraph in her lap, at the head of the table: the lovely “ olive 
plants ; ” as the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother ; the 

beautiful Mrs. G-; the lovely, sweet Miss C-, etc. 1 wish 1 had 

the powers of Guido to do them justice 1 My Lord Duke’s kind hospi¬ 
tality—markedly kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintry’s charms of con¬ 
versation—Sir W. Murray’s friendship. In short, the recollections of 
all that polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my bosom. 

R. B. 

» One of Mrs. Chalmers’ married daughters, wife oC Sir Hector Mackenzie, 




432 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. LXII. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Ylth September, 1787. 

My dear Brother, 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two 
days, and traveling near six hundred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through 
the heart of the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of 
Lord Bredalbane, down the Tay, among cascades and Druidical circles 
of stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence across Tay, 
and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
Duke’s seats, where I had the honor of spending nearly two days with 
his Grace and family ; thence many miles through a wild country among 
cliffs gray with eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed 
Spey and went down the stream through Strathspey,—so famous in 
Scotch music,—Badenoch, etc., till I reached Grant Castle, where I 
spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the an¬ 
cient seat of Macbeth ; there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition 
says King Duncan was murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to Aber¬ 
deen, thence to Stonehive, where James Burness, from Montrose, met 
me by appointment. 1 spent two days among our relations, and found 
our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John 
Cairn,^ though born the same year with our father, walks as vigorously 
as I can; they have had several letters from his son in New York. 
William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further particulars I 
delay till I see you, which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of 
my stages are not worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian’s coun¬ 
try, where I had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or 
fertile carses ? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie’s one night, and 
dined at Gordon Castle next day, with the Duke, Duchess, and family. 
I am thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; but you shall hear farther from me before I leave 
Edinburgh. My duty and many compliments from the north to my 
mother ; and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have been trying 
for a berth for William, ^ but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. 

R. B. 

' Husband of Elizabeth Buras, another aunt. Mr. Brand was Isabel’s husband. 

• Burns’ younger brother. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


433 


No. LXIIl. 

TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

September 2Qth, 1787. 

I SEND Charlotte ^ the first number of the songs ; I would not wait 
for the second number ; 1 hate delays in little marks of friendship, as 1 
hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am determined to 
pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if 1 could hit on some glorious old 
Scotch air, in number second.'-* You will see a small attempt on a shred 
of paper in the book ; but, though Dr. Blacklock commended it very 
highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. 1 intend to make it a de- 
scription of some kind : the whining cant of love, except in real 
passion, and by a masterly hand, is to me as insufferable as the preach¬ 
ing cant of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, 
fiames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauch- 
line ... a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable 
author of “ Tullochgorum,” “ John of Badenyon,” etc.^ I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I 
ever got. 1 will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller about 
his farms. Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit 
for a little wisdom. “ I Wisdom dwell with Prudence.” What a 
blessed fireside 1 How happy should 1 be to pass a winter evening 
under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink 
water-gruel with them I What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and 
daughters of indiscretion and folly I And what frugal lessons, as we 
straitened the fireside circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs! 

Miss N. fimmo] is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old 
way to you. 1 used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the 
hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge 
her out to Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have 
lost its effect on the lovely half of mankind. 1 have seen the day—but 
that is a “ tale of other years.” In my conscience I believe that my heart 
has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex 
with something like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky 
in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator’s 
workmanship ; 1 am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity 

’ Charlotte Hamilton. * Of the Scots Musical Museum 

® Rev. John Skinner, father of Bishop Skinner. The letter was in the shape of a 
poetical address to the “ Country Ploughman.” 




434 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


of their motions, and—wish them gooc* night. I mean this with respect 
to a certain passion dont fai eu Vhonneur d'etre un miserable esclave: 
as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me pleasure, per¬ 
manent pleasure, “which the world cannot give nor take away,”! 
hope; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth.—R. B. 


No. LXIV. 


TO THE SAME. 

Without date, 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided 
about a farm in that country. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my 
brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, 
sober man (qualities which are only a younger brother’s fortune in our 
family), I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return 
into partnership with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the 
neighborhood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that 1 have, to the best of my 
power, paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air Is ad¬ 
mirable : true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which 
an Inverness lady sung me when 1 was there ; and I was so charmed 
with it that I begged her to write me a set of it from her singing ; for 
it had never been set before. 1 am fixed that it shall go in Johnson’s 
next number; so Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time 
in contradicting me. 1 won’t say the poetry is first-rate ; though 1 am 
convinced it is very well; and, what is not always the case with com¬ 
pliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just. 

[Here follows the song of “ The Banks of the Devon.”] 

R. B. 


No. LXV. 


TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., 

GORDON CASTLE. 

[Hoy was librarian at Gordon Castle—a character of the Dominie 
Sampson kind. “ It was,” says Mr. Robert Carruthers, “ the business 
of Hoy, during the day, to store his mind with all such knowledge as 
the publications of the time supplied ; and then over a bottle of claret, 
after dinner, impart to his Grace of Gordon, all that he reckoned 
valuable or important.” Burns was delighted with his blunt, straight¬ 
forward manner, and the librarian strove, it is said, to repay it by 
giving the postboy a crown to contrive, no matter how, to stop the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


435 


bard’s departure from Fochabers. The fierce impetuosity of Nicol pre¬ 
vented this.J 

Edinburgh, 20tli October, 1787. 

Sir, 

I will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best 
of Christian principles—“ Whatsover ye would that men should do unto 
you, do ye even so unto them.” I shall certainly, among my legacies, 
leave my latest curse to that unlucky predicament which hurried—tore 
me away from Castle Gordon. May tliat obstinate son of Latin prose 
[Nicol] be curse to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league 
paragraphs ; while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and 
Time, under the ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, 
eternally rank against him in hostile array. 

Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your acquain¬ 
tance, by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in 
Edinburgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest Scotch 
enthusiasm, set about collecting all our native songs and setting them 
to music ; particularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, 
the well-known musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and 
Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, and your 
humble servant to the utmost of his small power, assist in collecting 
the old poetry, or sometin)es for a fine air make a stanza, when it has 
no words. The brats, too tedious to mention, claim a parental pang 
from my hardship. I suppose it will appear in Johnson’s second num¬ 
ber—the first was published before my acquaintance with him. My 
request is—“ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,” is one intended for this number, 
and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gordon’s words to it, which you were 
so kind as to repeat to me. You may be sure we won’t prefix the 
author’s name, except you like, though I look on it as no small merit 
to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch 
songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted. I do not well know 
where to write to you—I rather write at you; but if you will be so 
obliging, immediately on receipt of this, as to write me a few lines, I 
shall perhaps pay you in kind, though not in quality. Johnson’s terms 
are:—each number a handsome pocket volume, to consist at least of a 
hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, etc. The price 
to subscribers, 5s.; to non-subscribers, 6s. He will have three numbers, 
I conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William Cruik- 
shank’s, St. James’s Square, New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am. Sir, 

Yours to command, 

R. B. 




436 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. LXVI. 

TO REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Edinburgh, October 25 th, 1787. 

Reverend and venerable Sir, 

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best 
poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you 
have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best 
abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and 
while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the 
pleasure of paying a younger brother’s dutiful respect to the author of 
the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw—“ Tullochgorum’s my delight 1 ’* 
The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making if they 
please, but, as Job says—“ O that mine adversary had written a book I ” 
—let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a 
wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks 
them, not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of 
song-wrights, in our native manner and language. The only remains 
of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rests with you. 
Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise “owre cannie”—a 
“ wild warlock ; ” but now he sings among the “sons of the morning.” 

I have often wished, and will certainly endeavor, to form a kind of 
common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; but 
“ reverence thyself.” The world is not our peers, so we cliallenge the 
jury. We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of 
amusement and happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your 
best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and 
publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. 
Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the 
music must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a 
hand, and the first musician in town presides over that department. I 
have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every 
information remaining respecting their origin, authors, etc., etc. This 
last is but a very fragment business; but at the end of his second 
number—the first is already published—a small account will be given 
of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your 
three songs, “ Tullochgorum,” “John of Badenyon,” and “ Ewie wi* 
the crookit Horn,” go in this second number. I was determined, be¬ 
fore I got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me 
know where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


437 

wish them to continue in future times ; and if you would be so kind to 
this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others that you 
would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the 
other authors,—“ Nill ye, will ye.” One half of Scotland already give 
your songs to other authors. Paper is done. 1 beg to hear from you ; 
the sooner the better, as 1 leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three 
weeks. 

1 am, with the warmest sincerity, Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, 

K. B. 


No. LXVIT. 

TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., 

GORDON CASTLE. 

Edinburgh, Uh November, 1787. 

Dear Sir, 

I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind 
letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to me 
that 1 ought to send you something by way of return. When a poet 
owes anything, particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the 
payment that usually recurs to him—the only coin indeed in which he 
is probably conversant—is rhyme. Johnson sends the book by the fly, 
as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks : my return 
I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world 
have not seen, or perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I 
shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a 
little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending one’s precious 
hours and still more precious breath; at any rate, they will be, though 
a small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentle¬ 
man whose farther acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar 
obligation. 

The Duke’s song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. 
There is 1 know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression 
peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, 
old venerable Skinner, the author of “ Tullochgorum,” etc., and the 
late Ross at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only 
modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay, with his contempo¬ 
raries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence 
and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed 
beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song ; but, as 
Job says, “ O that mine adversary had written a book ! ” Those who 




438 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business—let them 
try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian 
admonition—“ Hide not your candle under a bushel,” but “Let your 
light shine before men.” 1 could name half a dozen dukes that I guess 
are a devilish deal worse employed ; nay, I question if there are half a 
dozen better; perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom 
Heaven has favored with the tuneful, happy, and, 1 will say, glorious 
gift. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. LXVIII. 

TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ., 

EDINBURGH. 

Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, November 23d, 1787. 

I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make any appointment to take us 
to Mr. Ainslie’s to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitu¬ 
tion, present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, 
etc., 1 find I can’t sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one 
o’clock, if you have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, that I find the idea of 
your friendship almost necessary to my existence. You assume 
a proper length of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and 
you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good things. 1 don’t 
know upon the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in God’s world, 
but you are so to me. I tell you this just now in the conviction that 
some inequalities in my temper and manner may perhaps sometimes 
make you suspect that I am not so warmly as I ought to be your 
friend.—R. B. 


No. LXIX. 

TO MISS MABANE [afterwards MRS. COL. WRIGHT]. 

Saturday noon, No. 2, St. James’s Square, 
New Town, Edinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony attitude of perplexed 
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the 
intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured 
around; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


439 


the future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a compli¬ 
mentary card to accompany your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a 
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have 
the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, 1 can give myself the pleasure 
of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time 
about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connois¬ 
seur. The broken glass, likewise, went under review ; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric. 

I am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm, 

Your very obedient Servant, 

R. B. 


No. LXX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, November 21, 1787. 

I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet 
which I owe to your and Charlotte’s goodness—it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible that even you two, 
whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of excel¬ 
lence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to 
correspond at that rate; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire be¬ 
cause they have made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear 
no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first; 
what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what 
you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e’en put 
down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flat¬ 
tery ; 1 leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; though, 
thank heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly 
happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly 
necessary appendage to female bliss—a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favorite resting-places for my soul in 
her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. 
God knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle ; I glory in being a Poet, and 
I want to be thought a wise man—I would fondly be generous, and I 
wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. “Some 
folk hae a hantle o’ fauts, an’ I’m but a ne’er-do-weel.” 




440 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Afternoon.—To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last 
sheet, 1 shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Garrick 
by the title of the “ Wabster’s grace ”; 

“ Some say we’re thieves, and e’en sae are we. 

Some say we lie, and e’en sae do we ! 

Gude forgie us, and [ hope sae will he I 
--Up and to your looms lads.” 

R. B. 


No. LXXI. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

[Edinburgh, December, 1787]. 

Sir, 

Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, 
has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my 
fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a 
poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by . . . 
friends to them, and honored acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has 
interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to in¬ 
quire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my 
thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in 
which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to believe 
this letter is not the maneuver of the needy, sharping author, fasten¬ 
ing on those in upper life, who honor him with a little notice of him or 
his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a prov¬ 
erb, as may, in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and 
talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality 
is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I be¬ 
lieve a careless, indolent attention to economy is almost inseparable 
from it; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature’s mak¬ 
ing, a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that wull 
ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune which fre¬ 
quently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not 
easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits 
him for the world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some 
pretensions to the politesse of life—yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank heaven my star has been kinder ; learning 
never elevated my ideas above the peasant’s shed, and I have an inde¬ 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


441 


I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the 
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish or worse, as to stoop to 
traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, 
as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my 
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you. Sir, for the warmth 
with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowl¬ 
edge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but rev¬ 
erence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever 
preserve. I have no return. Sir, to make you for your goodness but one 
—a return which I am persuaded will not be unacceptable—the honest 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of 
that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever 
calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward 
the blow I—R. B. 


No. LXXIL 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 

[Edinburgh, December, 17871. 

My dear Sir, 

It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours 
of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire ; 
I seldom pray for anybody, “ I’m baith dead-sweer and wretched ill 
o’t ” ; but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, 
that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are 
happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of 
your health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to 
drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you 
will never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and 
that cold drams you will never more taste ; and, above all things, I am 
convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling punch, you will never 
mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all 
things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy with that Boan¬ 
erges of gospel powers. Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will 
wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in 
trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of charity, 
humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised 
so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neglecting, or 
perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without 
works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, 
in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal 





442 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


for your well-being, 1 earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunting 
over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to 
Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

Yours, etc., 

R. B. 


No. LXXIII. 


TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, December, 1787. 

My dear Madam, 

I just now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot 
be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point 
you out to the world at large ; and the circle of your acquaintances will 
allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost 
solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you ? 1 will; so 
look to it. Personal attractions, Madam, you have much above par ; 
wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a 
cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of 
your sheepish timidity. 1 know the world a little. 1 know what they 
will say of my poems ; by second sight I suppose, for 1 am seldom out 
in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear Madam, 1 would 
not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. 1 wish 
to show the world the odds between poet’s friends and those of simple 
prosemen. More for your information, both the pieces go in. One of 
them, “ Where braving angry winter’s storms,” is already set—the tune 
is “ Neil Gow’s Lamentation for Abercairny the other is to be set to 
an old Highland air in Daniel Dow’s collection of ancient Scots music ; 
the name is “ Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith." My treacherous memory 
has forgot every circumstance about Las Incas, only 1 think you men¬ 
tioned them as being in Creech’s possession. I shall ask him about it. 
1 am afraid the song of “ Somebody ” will come too late—as I shall for 
certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, 
but there my hopes are slender. 1 leave my direction in town, so any¬ 
thing, wherever I am, will reach me. 

1 saw yours to -; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. 

On the contrary, like a whipped spaniel, he talks of being with you in 

the Christmas days. Mr.-has given him the invitation, and he 

is determined to accept it. O selfishness ! he owns, in his sober mo¬ 
ments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in 
which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father’s disposition, the' 
whole affair is chimerical—yet he will gratify an idle penchant at the 
enormous, cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of the very 
woman for whom he professes the generous passion of love I He is a 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


443 


gentleman in his mind and manners— pis! He is a volatile school¬ 
boy—the heir of a man’s fortune who well knows the value of two times 
two! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make 

the amiable, the lovely-, the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs.-’s recovery, because I really 

thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting 
her : 

“ As 1 came in by Glenap, 

1 met with an aged woman ; 

She bade me cheer up my heart. 

For the best o’ my days was cornin’,” 

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, 
not what they ought to be ; yet better than what they appear to be. 

" Heaven’s Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, 

That hideous sight—a naked human heart.” 

Farewell I remember me to Charlotte. 

R. B. 


No. LXXIV. 

TO MRS. M‘LEHOSE. 

[The correspondence with Clarinda records one of the most inter¬ 
esting, although by no means creditable episodes of Burns’s romantic 
life. The circumstances under which the letters were exchanged are 
explained in the Biographical Preface. It was at the house of Miss 
Nimmo, an elderly lady, known both to Burns and his friend. Miss 
Chalmers, that they first met at tea, according to Mr. Robert Chambers’s 
reckoning, about the 4th of December ; and the following letter, the 
first of a remarkable series, is an acceptance of Mrs. M’Lehose’s invita¬ 
tion to tea, on Saturday the 8th. Mrs. M'Lehose preserved all Burns’s 
letters, which she esteemed, in her own words, “ precious memorials of 
an acquaintance, the recollection of which would influence me were 1 
to live fourscore.” (Letter to Mr. Syme, 1796.) After his death she 
offered to select some passages for publication in the collected edition 
of his writings for the benefit of his widow and children. The person 
to whom she lent the letters for the transcription of the extracts she 
had chosen, copied them all, and published them in violation of his own 
engagement and against Mrs. M‘Lehose’s wish. Parts were given in 
Cromek’s Reliques.'] 






444 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Tuesday Evening, [DecemWc, 1787]. 

Madam, 

I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, and have 
not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the 
opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave town this day se’nnight, 
and probably for a couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever regret that 
I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose 
welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant w^ay, rallied me a 
good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humor of her ideas 1 
wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have a good deal 
of poetic merit ; and Miss [Nimmo] tells me you are not only a critic, 
but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry ; and 
1 hope you will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tol¬ 
erable off-hand jeu d'esprit. I have several poetic trifles, which I will 
gladly leave with Miss [Nimmo] or you, if they were worth house- 
room ; as there are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would 
mortify me more to be forgotten, though at the distance of ninescore 
miles. 

I am, Madam, with the highest respect, 

Your very humble Servant, 

* * * # 

No. LXXV. 

TO MRS. M‘LEHOSE. 

[An accident through a drunken coachman prevented Burns from 
keeping his engagement.] 

Saturday even [Dec. 8]. 

I CAN say with truth. Madam, that I never met with a person in my 
life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To¬ 
night I was to have had that very great pleasure—I was intoxicated 
with the idea ; but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of 
my knees, that I can’t stir my leg off the cushion. So, if I don’t see 
you again, I shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the 
soul I had not seen you sooner. I determined to cultivate your friend¬ 
ship with the enthusiasm of religion ; but thus has Fortune ever served 
me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. 
I know not how to account for it—I am strangely taken with some 
people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but I am an 
odd being. Some yet unnamed feelings—things, not principles, but 
better than whims—carry me farther than boasted reason ever did a 
philoso|)her. 

Farewell I every happiness be yours. 


Robert Burns. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


445 


No. LXXVI. 

TO MRS. M‘LEHOSE. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose, in condoling with him on his accident, said, “ Were 
I your sister I would call and see you,” and enclosed some verses she 
had written after reading the little poem he had sent her, modestly dis¬ 
claiming the idea of their being poetry.] 

1 STRETCH a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your 
card on the rack of my present agony. Your friendship. Madam 1 By 
heavens, I was never proud before I Your lines, I maintain it, are 
poetry, and good poetry ; mine were indeed partly fiction, and partly 
a friendship which, had I been so blest as to have met with you in 
time, might have led me—God of love only knows where. Time is 
too short for ceremonies. 

1 swear solemnly, (in all the tenor of my former oath) to remember 
you in all the pride and warmth of friendship until—I cease to be! 

To-morrow, and every day, till 1 see you, you shall hear from me. 

Farewell! May you enjoy a better night’s repose than 1 am likely to 
have. 


No. LXXVII. 

TO MRS. M‘LEHOSE. 

[In her rejoinder Mrs. M‘Lehose reminded her correspondent that, 
though practically a widow, she was still a wife, and asked him play¬ 
fully whether he could, Jacob-like, wait seven years for a wife at the 
risk of being even then disappointed.] 

Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job’s situation 
had on his friends, when “they sat down seven days and seven nights 
astonied, and spake not a word.” “ Pay my addresses to a married 
woman I ” 1 started as if 1 had seen the ghost of him 1 had injured : 1 
recollected my expressions; some of them indeed were, in the law 
phrase, “ habit and repute,” which is being half guilty. 1 cannot posi¬ 
tively say. Madam, whether my heart might not have gone astray a 
little; but 1 can declare, upon the honor of a poet, that the vagrant 
has wandered unknown to me. 1 have a pretty handsome troop of fol¬ 
lies of my own; and, like some other people’s retinue, they are but 
undisciplined blackguards : but the luckless rascals have something of 
honor in them ; they would not do a dishonest thing. 

To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted 
and widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, 




446 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


and gratitude to protect, comfort, and cherish her; add to all, when 
she is perhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble minds, the 
mind, too, that hits one’s taste as the joys of heaven do a saint—should 
a vague infant idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtlessly 
peep over the fence—were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the 
poor, airy straggler brought before you, trembling, self-condemned, 
with artless eyes, brimful of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge, 
you could not, my dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death 
“without benefit of clergy?” 

I won’t tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of “ seven 
years ; ” but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the 
same allusion 

“ The Patriarch to gain a wife, 

Chaste, beautiful and young. 

Served fourteen years a painful life, 

And never thought it Jong. 

•• Oh, were you to reward such cares, 

And life so long would stay. 

Not fourteen but four hundred years 
Would seem as but one day.” 

I have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, 
and you may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no better 
way of consuming your time ; but finding fault with the vagaries of 
a poet’s fancy is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the 
waves of the Hellespont. 

My limb now allows me to sit in some peace : to walk I have yet 
no prospect of, as I can’t mark it to the ground. 

1 have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a 
chaos of nonsense that 1 daresay you will throw it into the fire, and 
call me an idle, stupid fellow ; but whatever you may think of my 
brains, believe me to be, with the most sacred respect and heartfelt 
esteem. 

My dear Madam, your humble Servant, 

Robert Burns. 


No. LXXVIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[It is worth while to break the continuity of the Clarinda corre¬ 
spondence, by interspersing other letters written by Burns at the same 
time, in order to illustrate his state of mind at that period, and to 
enable readers to judge of the artificial character of the passionate 
addresses to that lady.j 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


447 


Edinburgh, Dec. 13, 1787. 

I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended 
on a cushion ; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror 
preceding a midnight thunderstorm. A drunken coachman was the 
cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily 
constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a “quadruple alliance ” to 
guarantee the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly 
better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five 
books of Moses, and half-way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. 
I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all 
the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy—I mean the merit 
of making it—to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic 
creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the Banks of the Devon, which present 
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The Oehil-hills * you shall probably 
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches!—R. B. 

No. LXXIX. 

TO CHARLES HAY. ESQ., 

ADVOCATE. 

[Enclosing verses on the death of the Lord President, Robert Dundas 
of Armiston, who died December 13, 1787. J 

Sir, 

The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion 
last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next morning’s sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested 
effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of 
subjects are much hackneyed ; and, besides, the wailings of the rhym¬ 
ing tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of 
all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse’s fire ; how¬ 
ever, I have done the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an 
opportunity of declaring that I have the honor to be. 

Sir 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 

* The song in honor of Miss Chalmers, beginning, “ Where braving angry winter’s 
storms.” 







448 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. LXXX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, \^th Dec,, 1787. 

I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17tL current, which is 
not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my hardship, 
not on poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best leg with an 
air, and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May 
frog leaping across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance 
of the refreshed earth after the long-expected shower! 

I can’t say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my 
path that meager, squalid, famine-faced specter Poverty ; attended as 
he always is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt; but I 
have sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-labored day already, 
and still my motto is—I dare ! My worst enemy is moi-meme. I lie so 
miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light¬ 
armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, 
caprice and passion, and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, 
prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost 
in a state of perpetual warfare, and alas I frequent defeat. There are 
just two creatures I would envy—a horse in his wild state traversing 
the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. 
The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish 
nor fear. R. B. 


No. LXXXI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[In the rest of the letters between Mrs. M‘Lehose and Burns, she signs 
herself Clarinda, and he Sylvander.j 

Friday Evening [December 21]. 

I BEG your pardon, my dear “ Clarinda,” for the fragment scrawl I 
sent you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman 
for whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest 
veneration, called in just as I had begun the second sentence, and I 
would not make the porter wait. I read to my much-respected friend 
several of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I 
had copied out. He began some criticisms on them as on the other 
pieces, when I informed him they were the work of a young lady in this 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


449 


town, which, I assure you, made him stare. My learned friend seri¬ 
ously protested that he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh 
was capable of such lines ; and if you know anything of Professor 
Gregory, you will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do 
love you, if possible, still better for having so fine a taste and turn for 
poesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you 
may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch 
expression you please in its place. I believe there is no holding con¬ 
verse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amiable woman, much 
less a gloriously amiable fine woman, without some mixture of that de¬ 
licious passion whose most devoted slave I have more than once had 
the honor of being. But why be hurt or offended on that account ? 
Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must 
run his head against an intrigue ? Take a little of the tender witch¬ 
craft of love, and add to it the generous, the honorable sentiments of 
manly friendship, and I know but one more delightful morsel, which 
few, few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding 
cream to strawberries ; it not only gives the fruit a more elegant rich¬ 
ness, but has a peculiar deliciousness of its own. 

I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion.i 
I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt 
if any friend should give any copies without my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a 
commerce of this kind), how much store I have set by the hopes of your 
future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my char¬ 
acter, but I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my 
trade are, a strange Will-o’-wisp being; the victim, too frequently, of 
much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements 
are pride and passion. The first I have endeavored to humanize into 
integrity and honor ; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest de¬ 
gree of enthusiasm in love, religion, or friendship—either of them, or 
all together, as I happen to be inspired. ’Tis true I never saw you but 
once ; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once I 
Do not think I flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda ; 1 have 
too much pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other ; 
but of all God’s creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of 
my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the 
most permanent impression. I say the most permanent, because I 
know myself well, and how far I can promise either in my preposses¬ 
sions or powers. Why are you unhappy ? And why are so many of our 
fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you, 
blest with all they can wish ? You have a hand all benevolent to give: 


* Probably the verses on the Death of the Lord President. 





450 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


why were you denied the pleasure? You have a heart formed—glori¬ 
ously formed—for all the most refined luxuries of love : why was that 
heart ever wrung ? Oh Clarinda I shall we not meet in a state, some 
yet unknown state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall 
minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and where the chill north 
wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery fields of enjoy¬ 
ment ? If we do not, man was made in vain ! I deserve most of the 
unhappy hours that have lingered over my head ; they were the wages 
of my labor: but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole 
upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy fate, and dashed your cup 
of life with undeserved sorrow ? 

Let me know how long your stay will be out of town ; I shall count 
the hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids 
your seeing me just now ; and so soon as 1 can walk I must bid Edin¬ 
burgh adieu. Lord! why was I born to see misery which I cannot 
relieve, and to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy ? 1 look back 
with the pang of unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you 
sooner : all last winter, these three months past, what luxury of inter¬ 
course have I not lost I Perhaps, though, ’twas better for my peace. 
You see I am either above or incapable of dissimulation. 1 believe it 
is want of that particular genius. I despise design, because 1 want 
either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. 1 am interrupted. Adieu, 
my dear Clarinda I 

Sylvander. 


No LXXXII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

My dear Clarinda, 

Your last verses have so delighted me, that I have copied them 
in among some of my own most valued pieces, which I keep sacred for 
my own use. Do let me have a few now and then. 

Did you. Madam, know what I feel when you talk of your sorrows I 

Good God ! that one who has so much worth in the sight of heaven, 
and is so amiable to her fellow-creatures, should be so unhappy ! I 
can’t venture out for cold. My limb is vastly better; but I have not 
any use of it without my crutches. Monday, for the first time, I dine 
at a neighbor’s, next door. As soon as I can go so far, even in a coach, 
my first visit shall be to you. Write me when you leave town, and 
immediately when you return ; and I earnestly pray your stay may be 
short. You can’t imagine how miserable you made me when you hinted 
to me not to write. Farewell. 


Sylvander. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


451 


No. LXXXIII. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

IRVINE. 

[Richard Brown is the “very noble character, but hapless son of 
misfortune,” to whom Burns refers in his memoir as having had a great 
influence on his youth.] 

Edinburgh, doth Dec., 1787. 

My dear Sir, 

I have met with few things in life which have given me more 
pleasure than Fortune’s kindness to you since those days in which we 
met in the vale of misery; as 1 can honestly say, that I never knew a 
man who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly 
wished it. I have been much indebted since that time to your story 
and sentiment for steeling my mind against evils, of which 1 have had 
a pretty decent share. My Will-o’-wisp fate you know: do you recol¬ 
lect a Sunday we spent together in Eglinton Woods ? You told me, on 
my repeating some verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the 
temptation of sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was 
from this remark I derived that idea of my own pieces which encour¬ 
aged me to endeavor at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear 
that you will be two or three months at home. As soon as a bruised 
limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; 
“ and faith I hope we’ll not sit dumb, nor yet cast out! ” 

I have much to tell you “ of men, their manners, and their ways ; ’* 
perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered 10 
Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found 
substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered, 
but not a different man : the wild, bold, generous young fellow com¬ 
posed into the steady affectionate husband, the fond and careful parent. 
For me, I am just the same Will-o’-wisp being I used to be. About the 
first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade 
wind of wisdom ; but about the full and change, I am the luckless 
victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. All-mighty love 
still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment ready to 
hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and wisdom 
more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian 
bandit, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My Highland 
dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed 
into a neighboring closet, the key of which I cannot command, in 
case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by the fol¬ 
lowing verses which she sent me the other day. . . . 

My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu ! 


18—Burns—T 





452 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. LXXXIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Mrs. M‘Lehose, as is evident from the allusions in Burns’s letters, 
repeatedly sent him verses of her own composition. The lines referred 
to in the following letter will give a fair idea of her poetical gifts. 

Talk not of Love—it gives me pain, 

For Love has been my foe ; 

He bound me in an iron chain, 

And plunged me deep in woe. 

“ But Friendship’s pure and lasting joys 
My heart was form’d to prove— 

The worthy object be of those, 

But never talk of Love ! 

“ The hand of Friendship I accept— 

May Honour be our guard I 
Virtue our intercourse direct, 

Her smiles our dear reward.] 

[After New Yearns day, 1788.] 

You are right, my dear Clarinda : a friendly correspondence goes for 
nothing, except one write their undisguised sentiments. Yours please 
me for their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours, which, 
I assure you, is to me a high recommendation. Your religious senti¬ 
ments, Madam, I revere. If you have, on some suspicious evidence, 
from some lying oracle learned that 1 despise or ridicule so sacredly 
important a matter as real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much 
misconstrued your friend I am not mad, most noble Festus I ” 
Have you ever met a perfect characters? Do we not sometimes rather 
exchange faults than get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps 
tired with and shocked at a life too much the prey of giddy inconsist¬ 
encies and thoughtles follies; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and 
statedly pious—I say statedly, because the most unaffected devotion is 
not at all inconsistent with my first character—I join the world in con¬ 
gratulating myself on the happy change. But let me pry more nar¬ 
rowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a secret pride 
in these endowments and emendations? Have I nothing of a Presby¬ 
terian sourness, a hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regular 
neighbors? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and number¬ 
less modifications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own 
eyes, we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and 
which the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the 
ordinary observer ? 

My definition of worth is short; truth and humanity respecting our 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


453 


fellow-creatures ; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being, 
my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, 
will one day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature 
of unbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. Where 
I found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightly mention, 
any attendant flaws—flaws, the marks, the consequences of human 
nature. 

I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong imagina¬ 
tion and keen sensibility must derive from religion, particularly if a 
little in the shade of misfortune ; but I own I cannot, without a marked 
grudge, see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming a woman, 
as ray friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a circum¬ 
stance that would put it in the power of somebody (happy somebody I) 
to divide her attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an 
earthly attachment. 

You will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical 
knowledge of the English language. So far from being inaccurate, 
you are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one, 
whom I wish you knew. 

Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an excel¬ 
lent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them in 
print in the Scots Musical Museum, a work publishing by a friend of 
mine in this town. I want four stanzas; you gave me but three, and 
one of them alluded to an expression in my former letter ; so I have 
taken your two first verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and 
have added a third ; but you must help me to a fourth. Here they are : 
the latter half of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho ; 
1 am in raptures with it. 

“ Talk not of Love, it gives me pain. 

For Love has been my foe: 

He bound me with an iron chain, 

And sunk me deep in woe. 

“ But Friendship’s pure and lasting joys 
My heart was form’d to prove : 

There, welcome, win and wear the prize, 

But never talk of love.” 

Your friendship much can make me blest, 

O why that bliss destroy ? 

(only] 

Why urge the odious one request, 

[will] 

You know I must deny ? 

The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there 
was a slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your 





454 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


choice, and have left two words for your determination. The air is 
“ The Banks of Spey,” and is most beautiful. 

To-morrow evening I intend taking a -chair ; and paying a visit at 
Park Place to a much-valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding 
you at home (and I will send one of the chairmen to call), I would 
spend from five to six o’clock with you, as I go past. I cannot do more 
at this time, as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. 
I propose giving you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss 

-, as I return home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will 

spend another evening with you at any rate before I leave town. 

Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of 
your faults. 1 am ignorant what they are ; but I am sure they must be 
such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental 
accomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous narrow soul 
who would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have 
any other way than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse 
minds are not aware how much they injure the keenly-feeling tie of 
bosom-friendship, when, in their foolish officiousness, they mention 
what nobody cares for recollecting. People of nice sensibility and gen¬ 
erous minds have a certain intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled 
with, or lowered, or even too nearly approached. 

You need make no apology for long letters : I am even with you. 
Many happy new-yearsto you, charming Clarindal I can’t dissemble, 
were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as I have done and does 
not love you, deserves to be damned for his stupidity ! He who loves 
you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damned for his vil¬ 
lainy ! Adieu. 

Sylvander. 

P. S.—What would you think of this for a fourth stanza ? 

Your thought, if Jove must harbor there, 

Conceal it in that thought, 

Nor cause me from my bosom tear, 

The very friend I sought. 


No. LXXXV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Reference is here made to the second interview between Burns and 
Mrs. M‘Lehose; along with the letter he sent his autobiography.] 

Some days, some nights, nay, some hours, like the “ ten righteous 
persons in Sodom,” save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


455 


months and years of life. One of these hours my dear Clarinda blest 
me with yesternight. 


“-One well-spent hour. 

In such a tender circumstance for friends. 

Is better than an age of common time I Thomeon, 

My favorite feature in Milton’s Satan is his manly fortitude in sup¬ 
porting what cannot be remedied—in short, the wild broken fragments 
of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was 
a favorite hero of mine. 

I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my 
life : it is truth, every word of it, and will give you a just idea of the 
man whom you have honored with your friendship. I am afraid you 
will hardly be able to make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I 
shall muse on, deliciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind’s eye, 
in my heart’s core: they will be in time enough for a week to come. 
I am truly happy your headache is better. Oh, how can pain or evil be 
so daringly unfeeling, cruelly savage as to wound so noble a mind, so 
lovely a form ! 

My little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. My every, 
strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda! 

Sylvander. 

I know not what I have written, I am pestered with people around me. 


No. LXXXVI. 
TO CLARINDA. 


[A tender rebuke from Clarinda about his want of religion drew from 
him this reply. ] 

Tuesday Night [Jan. 8?]. 

I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for 
religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are 
lukewarm in that most important of all things, “ O my soul, come not 
thou into their secrets ! ” I feel myself deeply interested in your good 
opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is 
our Author and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be 
(not for His sake in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of 
our hearts) the object of our reverential awe and grateful adoration : 
He is almighty and all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent ; hence 

prayer and every other sort of devotion.-“ He is not willing that any 

should perish, but that all should come to everlasting life, ” conse¬ 
quently it must be in every one’s power to embrace His offer of “ ever- 





456 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


lasting life ; ” otherwise He could not, in justice, condemn those who 
did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth, 
and charity, though it does not merit heaven, yet is an absolutely nec¬ 
essary prerequisite, without which heaven can neither be obtained nor 
enjoyed; and, by Divine promise, such a mind shall never fail of 
attaining “ everlasting life ; ” hence the impure, the deceiving, and the 
uncharitable extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness 
for enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate adminis¬ 
tration of all this, for wise and good ends known to Himself, into the 
hands of Jesus Christ—a great personage, whose relation to Him we 
cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is [that of] a guide and 
Saviour; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will 
bring us all through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at 
last. 

These are my tenets, my lovely friend ; and which, I think, cannot be 
w^ell disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of 
Jamie Deans’ grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire : “ Lord, grant that 
we may lead a gude life ! for a gude life makes a gude end ; at least it 
helps weel.” 

I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in 
my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and 
may guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, “ Talk not of 
love,” etc., for indeed he has “ plunged me deep in woe ! ” Not that I 
ever saw a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda ele¬ 
gantly says, “ in the companion, the friend, and the mistress.” One 
indeed I could except— one, before passion threw its mists over my dis¬ 
cernment, I knew the first of women ! Her name is indelibly written 
in my heart’s core—but I dare not look in on it—a degree of agony 
would be the consequence. Oh, thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making 
demon, who presidest over that frantic passion—thou mayst, thou dost 
poison my peace, but thou shalt not taint my honor—I would not, for a 
single moment, give an asylum to the most distant imagination, that 
would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the ex¬ 
pense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my exist¬ 
ence.-May she be as happy as she deserves ! And if my tenderest, 

faithfulest friendship can add to her bliss, I sliall at least have one 
solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom. Don't guess at these ravings ! 

I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed.^ It has 
been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours’ 
bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing 

* Mrs. M‘Lehose had promised to pass through his Square about two in the after¬ 
noon, and give him a nod if he were at the window of his room and she could dis¬ 
cover It. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


457 


in common with me but the port.- One -’Tis now “ witching time 

of night; ” and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute 
it to enchantments and spells ; for I can’t look over it, but will seal it 
up directly, as I don’t care for to-morrow’s criticisms on it. 

You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels attend 
and guard you as constantly as my good wishes do! 


“ Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, 

Shot forth peculiar graces.” 

John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my pillow 
to-night. Oh for a little of tlie cart-horse part of human nature ! Good 
night, my dearest Clarinda 1 

Sylvander. 

No. LXXXVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Clarinda writes to say she cannot imagine who is the fair one he 
alludes to in his last epistle. She first thought of his Jean, though un¬ 
certain whether she has his “ tenderest, faithfulest friendship.” She 
cannot understand that bonnie lassie—refusing him after such proofs 
of love ; and admires him for his continued fondness towards her. She 
promises again to give him a nod at his window.] 

Thursday Noon [Jan. 10?]. 

I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; but you don’t look to the proper 
story for a poet’s lodging. 

“ Where Speculation roosted near the sky.” 

1 could almost have thrown mj'^self over for very vexation. Why didn’t 
you look higher ? It has spoilt my peace for this day. To be so near 
my charming Clarinda; to miss her look while it was searching for 
me ! I am sure the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed 
itself into an inflammatory fever. I am sorry for your little boy : do 
let me know to-morrow how he is. 

You have converted me, Clarinda (I shall love that name while 1 
live ; there is heavenly music in it!). Booth and Amelia I know well. 
Your sentiments on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just 
and noble. “ To be feelingly alive to kindness and to unkindness ” is 
a charming female character. 

What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only 
know for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in 
my horizon when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, 




458 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


which has almost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, 
been as usual in its zenith, 1 had certainly blabbed something that 
would have pointed out to you the dear object of my tenderest friend¬ 
ship, and, in spite of me, something more. Had that fatal information 
escaped me, and it was merely chance or kind stars that it did not, I 
had been undone. You would never have written me, except, perhaps, 
once more. Oh, I could curse circumstances! and the coarse tie of 
human laws which keeps fast what common sense would loose, and 
which bars that happiness itself cannot give—happiness which other¬ 
wise love and honor would warrant! But hold—1 shall make no more 

hairbreadth ’scapes.” 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both 
strong and eternal. I told you I had but one male friend : 1 have but 
two female. 1 should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blan¬ 
dishments of flattery and courtship. Her I register in my heart’s core 
by Peggy Chalmers : Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. She 
is worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the 
highest compliment 1 can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda! Remember 

Sylvander. 


No. LXXXVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Morning, 

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may 
perhaps distrust me when I say ’tis also my favorite topic ; but mine is 
the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial di¬ 
vinity ; as I firmly believe, that every honest, upright man, of whatever 
sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, 
contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don’t 
send them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I 
fondly love, or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. 

“ Reverence thyself ” is a sacred maxim, and 1 wish to cherish it. I 
think I told you Lord Bolingbroke’s saying to Swift—“ Adieu, dear 
Swift, with all thy faults, I love thee entirely; make an effort to love 
me with all mine.” A glorious sentiment, and without which there 
can be no friendship. 1 do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, 
Clarinda—you merit it all. Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation. I 
could fondly love you, judge, then, what a maddening sting your re¬ 
proach would be. “ Oh I have sins to Heaven, but none to you!'' 
With what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to 
meet the Fly. I hope to be able to see you on foot, about the middle of 
next week. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


459 


I am interrupted—perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me 
—but I won’t anticipate blame. Oh Clarinda ! did you know how dear 
to me is your look of kindness, your smile of approbation, you would 
not, either in prose or verse, risk a censorious remark. 

“ Curst be the verse, how well so’er it flow. 

That tends to make one worthy man my foe 1 ” 

Sylvander. 


No. LXXXIX. 
TO CLARINDA. 


You talk of weeping, Clarinda: some involuntary drops wet your 
lines as I read them. Offend me, my dearest angel ! You cannot 
offend me—you never offended me. If you had ever given me the least 
shadow of offense, so pardon me, my God as I forgive Clarinda. I 
have read yours again ; it has blotted my paper. Though I find your 
letter has agitated me into a violent headache, I shall take a chair and 
be with you about eight. A friend is to be with us at tea, on my 
account, which hinders me from coming sooner. Forgive, my dearest 
Clarinda, my unguarded expressions. For Heaven’s sake, forgive me, 
or I shall never be able to bear my own mind. 

Your unhappy, 

Sylvander. 


No. XC. 


TO CLARINDA. 

[After a third interview Clarinda owns her high appreciation of 
Burns’s character: “ Our last interview has raised you very high in 
mine [esteem]. I have met with few, indeed, of your sex who under¬ 
stood delicacy in such circumstances.'''' Still she fears she may be the 
victim of her sensibility.] 

Monday Even, 11 o'clock. 

Why have 1 not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it; 
and before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced 
with rapture : but behold, it was some fool, who had taken it into his 
head to turn poet, and made me an offering of the firstfruits of his non¬ 
sense. “ It is not poetry, but prose run mad.” Did I ever repeat to you 
an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation 
of Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only 
equal his prose-notes. I was sitting in a merchant’s shop of my ac¬ 
quaintance, waiting somebody ; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and 



460 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


asked my opinion of it; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, 
which 1 did— 

TO MR. ELPHINSTONE, ETC. 

Oh, thou, whom poesy abhors I 
Whom prose has turned out of doors 1 
Heard’st thou yon groan ?—proceed no further I 
’Twas laurelled Martial calling murther 1 

I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening. 
Next week 1 must sing— 

The night is my departing night, 

The morn’s the day 1 maun awa’: 

There’s neither friend nor foe o’ mine 
But wishes that 1 were awa’! 

What I hae done for lack o’ wit, 

I never, never can reca’; 

] hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet— 

Gude night, and joy be wi’ you a’I 

If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I 
would not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at 
your expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace. 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of inco¬ 
herence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics 1) in my 
ideas is Clarinda. There my heart “ reigns and revels! ” 

" What art thou. Love ? whence are those charms. 

That thus thou bear’st an universal rule ? 

For thee the soldier quits his arms, 

The king turns slave, the wise man fool 
In vain we chase thee from the field. 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke: 

Next tide of blood, alas, we yield. 

And all those high resolves are broke ! ” 

I like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one’s ideas 
so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one’s 
feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic 
genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, etc., an embodied 
form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says 
finely of his Muse— 

“ Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 

Thou found’st me poor at first, and keept’st me so.” 

My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs 
often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my 
own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! 


Sylvander. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


461 


No. XCI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Evening, Jan. 15?]. 

That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted ; but I knew not 
where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark 
than ever. Oh Clarinda ! why will you wound my soul by hinting that 
last night must have lessened my opinion of you ? True, 1 was “ behind 
the scenes” with you; but what did I see? A bosom glowing with 
honor and benevolence; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and 
refined by education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, 
genuine as in the climes of heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious 
meltings of friendship, love, and pity. These I saw : I saw the noblest 
immortal soul creation ever showed me. 

I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter ; and am vexed that 
you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your 
idea, that the commerce you have with one friend hurts you if you 
cannot tell every tittle of it to another. Why have so injurious a sus¬ 
picion of a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, 
on the sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honor, and Religion, can be 
anything else than an object of His divine approbation ? 

1 have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening 
next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel ! how 
soon must we part! and when can we meet again ? 1 look forward on 
the horrid interval with tearful eyes. What have 1 lost by not knowing 
you sooner ! 1 fear, 1 fear my acquaintance with you is too short, 
to make that lasting impression on your heart 1 could wish. 

Sylvander. 


No. XCH. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Sunday Night [Jan. 20 ?]. 

The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indispo¬ 
sition to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before 
me all this evening to write to my dear Clarinda ; but 

•’ Fools rush’d on fools, as waves succeed to waves.” 

I cursed them in my soul : they sacrilegiously disturb my meditations 
on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man I A little alarm 
last night and to-day that I am mortal, has made such a revolution in 
my spirits I there is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to 




462 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


the mind. I have no idea of the courage that braves Heaven. ’Tis the 
wild ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. 1 can no more, Clarinda ; 

I can scarce hold up my head ; but 1 am happy you don’t know it, you 
would be so uneasy. 

Sylvander. 

Monday Morning. 

I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning, on the whole ; but 
1 have a horrid languor on my spirits— 

" Sick of the world and all its joy, 

My soul in pining sadness mourns : 

Dark scenes of woe my mind employ, 

The past and present in their turns.” 

Have you ever met with a saying of the great and likewise good Mr. 
Locke, author of the famous Essay on the Human Understanding ? Ho 
wrote a letter to a friend, directing it “ Not to be delivered till after my 
decease.” It ended thus—“ I know you loved me when living, and will 
preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is 
—that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of 
having done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu I I leave my 
best wishes with you. — J. Locke.” 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life ? I think I may. / 
Thou Almighty Preserver of men I Thy friendship, which hitherto I 
have too much neglected, to secure it shall all the future days and 
nights of my life be my steady care! The idea of my Clarinda 
follows :— 

“ Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. 

Where, mix’d with God’s, her loved idea lies.” 

But I fear inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human weak¬ 
ness. Shall 1 meet with a friendship that defies years of absence, and 
the chances and changes of fortune ? Perhaps “ such things are.” One 
honest man I have great hopes from, that way ; but who, except a 
romance writer, would think on a love that could promise for life, in 
spite of distance, absence, chance, and change ; and that, too, with 
slender hopes of fruition ? For my own part, I can say to myself in 
both requisitions, “Thou art the man ; ” 1 dare, in cool resolve, 1 dare 
declare myself that friend and that lover. If womankind is capable of 
such things, Clarinda is. 1 trust that she is ; and feel 1 shall be miser¬ 
able if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, or one 
sentiment which does honor to the sex, that she does not possess 
superior to any woman I ever saw : her exalted mind, aided a little 
perhaps by her situation, is, 1 think, capable of that nobly-romantic 
lo ve-en thusiasm. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


463 


May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel ? The next 
Wednesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I 
tremble for censorious remarks for your sake ; but in extraordinary 
cases, may not usual and useful precautions be a little dispensed with? 
Three evenings, three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, 
are all the past—I dare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss 
Nimmo’s to-morrow evening ; ’twill be a farewell call. 

I have written out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my 
last half-sheet. What a strange, myterious faculty is that thing called 
imagination ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world ; but I 
have often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness 
might be enjoyed by small alterations—alterations that we can fully 
enter to [sic], in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose 
you and I just as we are at present, the same reasoning powers, senti¬ 
ments, and even desires ; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and 
remarking observation in our minds—and imagine our bodies free from 
pain, and the necessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times 
and easily within our reach ; imagine further that we were set free 
from the laws of gravitation which bind us to this globe, and could at 
pleasure fly, without inconvenience, through all the yet unconjectured 
bounds of creation—what a life of bliss should we lead in our mutual 
pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friend¬ 
ship and love! 

I*see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous 
Mahometan; but I am certain I should be a happy creature, beyond 
anything we call bliss here below ; nay, it would be a paradise congenial 
to you too. Don’t you see us hand in hand, or rather my arm about 
your lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the 
fixed stars ; or surveying a comet flaming innoxious by us, as we just 
now would mark the passing pomp of a traveling monarch ; or in a 
shady bower of Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love and 
mutual converse, relying honor, and reveling endearment—while the 
most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready, sponta¬ 
neous language of our souls ? Devotion is the favorite employment of 
your heart, so is it of mine; what incentives then to, and powers for 
reverence, gratitude, faith, and hope, in all the fervors of adoration and 
praise to that Being whose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, 
so pervaded, so inspired every sense and feeling ? By this time, I dare¬ 
say, you will be blessing the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute 
of paper. 


Sylvander. 



4^4 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. XCIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Now for that wayward unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke 
measures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. 
He replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me upon his honor 
that I should have the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and 
yet I have not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me 1 a 
poor damned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the 
miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, 
agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions. \ 

“ I wish that I were dead, but I’m no’ like to die ! ” I had lately “ a 
hair-breadth ’scape in th’ imminent deadly breach ” of love, too. Thank 
my stars, I got off heart-whole, “ waur fleyed (worse frightened) than 
hurt.”—Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint ... I fear I am something like—undone 
—but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride, and unshrinking reso¬ 
lution ; accompany me through this, to me, miserable world ! You 
must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count on, though I 
should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and 
all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn-hope. 
Seriously, though, life presents me with but a melancholy path: but— 
my limb wTll soon be sound, and I shall struggle on. —-R. B. ^ 

No. XCIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. 

After six weeks’ confinement, I am beginning to walk across the 
room. They have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer 
resigns a commission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch, 
by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a 
miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving 
cadet—a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the war¬ 
fare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about 
the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I shall pay 
ray grateful duty at Dunlop House.—R. B 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


465 


No. XCV. 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRY. 

[It had long been a favorite project with Burns to get a place in the 
Excise. Through the influence of the friends appealed to in the follow¬ 
ing letters, his name was placed on the list of candidates to be appointed 
as vacanies occurred. ] 

Sir, 

When I had the honor of being introduced to you at Athol 
House, I did not so soon think of asking a favor of you. When Lear, 
in Shakspeare, asked old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he 
answers: “ Because you have that in your face which I would fain call 
master.” For some such reason. Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. 
You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to 
be admitted an officer of Excise. I have, according to form, been ex¬ 
amined by a supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certiflcate, with a 
request for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am 
afraid I shall but too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety of 
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare engage 
for; but with anything like business, except manual labor, 1 am totally 
unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of life 
in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial 
and fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that mis¬ 
erable manner which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent into 
the jaws of a jail; whence death, the poor man’s last and often best 
friend, rescued him. 

I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it; may 
I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
'ippointed to a division—where, by the help of rigid economy, I will 
try to support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been 
too often so distant from my situation ?—R. B. 

No. XCVI. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[This appeal was not successful in obtaining Lord Glencairn’s patron¬ 
age in the matter. J 

My Lord, 

I know your lordship will disapprove of 
am going to make to you ; but I have weig. 



466 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


weighed, my situation, my hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed 
to my scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. 1 wish to get into the 
Excise : I am told that your lordship’s interest will easily procure me 
the grant from the commissioners ; and your lordship’s patronage and 
goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretched¬ 
ness, and exile, enbolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise 
put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged 
mother, two brothers, and three sisters, from destruction. There, my 
lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude. 

My brother’s farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will prob¬ 
ably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and after the assist¬ 
ance which I have given, and will give him, to keep the family to¬ 
gether, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hun¬ 
dred pounds ; and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at 
present to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, with so small a 
stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit, ex¬ 
cepting only the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old age. 

Tliese, my lord, are my views: 1 have resolved from the maturest 
deliberation; and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to 
carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship’s patronage is the 
strength of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed 
my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of the 
great who have honored me with their countenance. I am ill-qualified 
to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and 
tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold 
denial; but to your lordship 1 have not only the honor, the comfort, but 
the pleasure of being 

Your lordship’s much and deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. XCVII. 


TO CLARINDA. 


[The next letter to Clarinda was written on the day following their 
fourth meeting. ] 


Thursday Morning [January 24 ?]. 


Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain,” 


my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for 
wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of 
lale tenderness, is without a peer, and whose 
V, very, very few, parallels among her sex; 
I to the blessed lot of a poor hairum-scairum 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


467 

poet whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her tem¬ 
per on whenever she was in ill-humor. One time I conjectured, that 
as Fortune is the most capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, 
not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil 
out of the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her 
as a stepping-stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had 
in her gift, merely for the maggot’s sake, to see how his fool head and 
his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think 
that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the 
coquettish goddess some such hint as, “ Here is a paragon of female 
excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was 
lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have 
cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my mak¬ 
ing ; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this 
masterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, 
which no woman of any age ever more deserved, and which few 
rhymsters of this age are better able to confer.” 

Evening, 9 o'clock. 

I am here, absolutely so unfit to finish my letter—pretty hearty after 
a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. 
I have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set the song 
finely. I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk 
your health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in 
this world. 

Sylvander. 


No. XCVIII. 
TO CLARINDA. 


pVIrs. McLehose’s letter after the last interview shows she was well 
aware of the delicate, not to say dangerous footing of her acquaint¬ 
ance with the Poet: “ I am neither well nor happy to-day : my heart 
reproaches me for last night. If you wish Clarinda to regain her 
peace, determine against everything but what the strictest delicacy 
warrants. ... Do not be displeased when 1 tell you I wish our part¬ 
ing was over. At a distance, we shall retain the same heartfelt affec¬ 
tion and interestedness in each other’s concerns ; but absence will mel¬ 
low and restrain those violent heart agitations which, if continued 
much longer, would unhinge my very soul, and render me unfit for the 
duties of life.”] 

[Friday, February 1 ?] 

Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I think of your 
being unhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic ele- 




468 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


gance of language, without being miserable ? Clarinda, can I bear to 
be told from you that “ you will not see me to-morrow night—that you 
wish the hour of parting were come ? ” Do not let us impose on our¬ 
selves by sounds. ... Why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms ; 
every word of which cuts me to the very soul ? You know, a hint, the 
slightest signification of your wish, is to me a sacred command. 

Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and me ; and I pledge 
your Sylvander’s honor—an oath I daresay you will trust without re¬ 
serve—that you shall never more have reason to complain of his con¬ 
duct. Now, my love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted 
looks. ... I have marked the line of conduct—a line, I know exactly 
to your taste—and which I will inviolably keep ; but do not show you 
the least inclination to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you 
know you may confide, is a cruel sin against sensibility. 

“ Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at once: take 
care that you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie that unites us.” 
Clarinda, I would not have stung your soul—I would not have bruised 
your spirit, as that harsh, crucifying “ Take care,” did mine ; no, not 
^o have gained heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if Syl- 
vander, even when he seemingly half transgressed the laws of decorum, 
if he did not show more chastised, trembling, faltering delicacy, than 
the many of the world do in keeping these laws ? 

O Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace ! I love 
to madness, and 1 feel to torture ! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself 
that I have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain I 
Would I do it willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification 
mak^e me do so? Oh, did you love like me, you would not, you'could 
n^, deny or put off a meeting with the man who adores you ; who 
would die a thousand deaths before he would injure you; and who 
must soon bid you a long farewell ! 

I had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow 
evening, at his strong request, to see you ; as he has only time to stay 
with us about ten minutes, for an engagement. But I shall hear from 
you, this afternoon, for mercy’s sake !—for, till 1 hear from you, 1 am 
wretched. Oh, Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, in¬ 
corporated with my dearest threads of life! 

Sylvander. 


No. XCIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

T WAS on the way, my love, to meet you (1 never do things by halves) 
when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morn¬ 
ing to see a brother of his, who is newly arrived from France. 1 am 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


469 


determined that he and I shall call on you together. So look you, lest 
I should never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night. Mary ^ and 
you may put off tea till about seven, at which time, in the Galloway 
phrase, “ an the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale,” expect 
the humblest of your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We 
only propose staying half an hour—“ for ought we ken.” 1 could suffer 
the lash of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be 
composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoy¬ 
ment—all else is of the stuff of stocks and stones. 

Sylvander. 


No. C. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Sunday Noon. 

I HAVE almost given up the Excise idea. I have been just now to 

wait on a great person. Miss-’s friend -. Why will great people 

not only deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with 
their fastidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorially wise ? 
I have been questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and 
schooled for my inscription on the Stirling window. Come, Clarinda I 
—“ Come, curse me Jacob ; come, defy me Israel! ” 

Sunday Night. 

1 have been with Miss Nimmo. She is indeed “a good soul,” as my 
Clarinda finely says. She has reconciled me, in a good measure, to the 
world with her friendly prattle. 

Schetki has sent me the song, set to a fine air of his composing. I 
have called the song “ Clarinda : ” 1 have carried it about in my pocket, 
and hummed it over all day. 

Monday Morning. 

If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on 
you and finds you in the arms of peace, except where it is charmingly 
interrupted by the ardors of devotion. I find so much serenity of 
mind, so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the 
world, when I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation—a con¬ 
sciousness of Almighty friendship—that I am sure 1 shall soon be an 
honest enthusiast. 

“ How are thy servants blest, O Lord I 
How sure is their defense 1 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help Omnipotence t ’’ 

1 am, my dear Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 


* One of Mrs. M‘Lehose’8 friends. 




470 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. Cl. 


TO CLARINDA. 

[In her next and several subsequent letters, Clarinda still dwells on 
Burns’s want of religious faith. “ Sylvander,” she says, “I believe 
nothing were a more impracticable task than to make you feel a little 
of genuine Gospel humility. Believe me, 1 wish not to see you deprived 
of that noble fire of an exalted mind which you eminently possess. Yet 
a sense of your faults—a feeling sense of them—were devoutly to be 
wished.” Another interview preceded the following letter from Syl¬ 
vander.J 

Sunday Morning. 

I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda , according 
to my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next 
devote myself to you. Yesternight 1 was happy—happiness that the 
world cannot give. 1 kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where 
innocence looks smiling on, and honor stands by, a sacred guard. 
Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours 
to bestow : your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country ; 
and he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are surely no mortal that “ the earth 
owns.” To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more 
exquisite bliss than the dearest favors that the fairest of the sex, 
yourself excepted, can bestow. 

Sunday Evening. 

You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is 
the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling 
under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid calm, what 
a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of 
friendship and the formal throes of love! Out upon the tempest of 
anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of 
louring resentment, or the corroding poison of withered envy I They 
eat up the immortal part of man. If they spent their fury only on the 
unfortunate objects of them, it would be something in their favor; 
but these miserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and 
master. 

Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love! do Thou 
give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man’s cup ! Is it a 
draught of joy?—warm and open my heart to share it with cordial, 
unenvying rejoicing. Is it the bitter potion of sorrow f—melt my heart 
with sincerely sympathetic woe. Above all, do Thou give me the mtinly 




THE -LETTERS OF BURNS. 


471 


mind that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments 
which I would wish to be thought to possess. The friend of my soul; 
there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active 
kindness I Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there, may 
the most sacred inviolate honor, the most faithful kindling constancy, 
ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of religion—your 
darling topic ?— 


'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night; 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 

’Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart; 

Within the breast bids purest rapture rise. 

Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.” 


I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with 
them, that I have them by me, copied at schocl. 

Good night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda I 

Sylvander. 


No. cri. 


TO CLARINDA. 

[Clarinda’s letters grew more passionate as the correspondence draws 
to a close. “ Never,” she writes, “ were there two hearts formed so 
exactly alike as ours. At all events, Sylvander, the storms of life will 
quickly pass, and ‘ one unbounded spring encircle all.’ Love, there, is 
not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. Oh God ! I must lay 
down my pen.” Mr. Robert Chambers says he has heard Clarinda, at 
seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one 
heart that she had ever found herself able entirely to sympathize with, 
but which had been divided from her on earth by such pitiless ob¬ 
stacles.] 

Thursday Night. 

I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me 
in your bosom gives me pain. If there is no man on earth to whom 
your heart and affections are justly due, it may savor of imprudence, 
but never of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections 
where you please. The God of love meant and made those delicious 
attachments to be bestowed on somebody ; and even all the imprudence 
lies in bestowing them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is 
conclusive, as it certainly is, I must be allowed to “talk of love.” 

It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter; 




472 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and 
restraint is the death of a friendly epistle; but there is one passage in 
your last charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, 
nor often came up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some 
future poetic production, and get immortal fame by it. ’Tis when you 
bid the scenes of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, 
Clarinda ? I would detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, in¬ 
famous blockhead. I have loved women of ordinary merit, whom I 
could have loved forever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable 
individual of the beauteous sex that I ever met with; and never woman 
more entirely possessed my soul. I know myself, and how far I can 
depend on passion’s swell. It has been my peculiar study. 

I thank you for going to Miers. Urge him, for necessity calls, to 
have it done by the middle of next week : Wednesday the latest day. 
I want it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep 
sacred set times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on 
you. Then, and only then, your lovely image shall be produced to the 
day, with a reverence akin to devotion. 


To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good night 1 
stupid, as I supped late yesternight. 


I am perfectly 
Sylvander, 


No. cm. 


TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Morning, 

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords 
of love and friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of 
what our favorite Thomson calls “ philosophic melancholy.” The 
sportive insects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity, or the worms, 
that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth ; they need no 
Clarinda—they would despise Sylvander, if they dared. The family of 
Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters I they need a 
resting-place to their souls. Unnoticed, often condemned by the world 
—in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves—they feel the 
full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate, tender endearments, mutual 
esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are 
wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas¬ 
sionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. 

'* ’Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 

’Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night.” 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


473 


--«- - - —— - 

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely 
says, “the dark postern of time long elapsed;” and you will easily 
guess ’twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak¬ 
ness, and folly ! My life reminded me of a ruined temple : what 
strength, what proportion in some parts I—what unsightly gaps, what 
prostrate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of Mercies, 
and said, “ Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in Thy sight, 
and am no more worthy to be called Thy son I ” I rose, eased and 
strengthened. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the 
religion of a man. “ The future,” said I to myself, “ is still before me: 
there let me 

‘ On reason build resolve— 

That column of true majesty in man 1 ’ 

I have difficulties many to encounter,” said I ; “ but they are not abso¬ 
lutely insuperable ; and where is firmness of mind shown, but in exer¬ 
tion ? Mere declamation is bombast rant. Besides, wherever I am, or 
in whatever situation I may be, 

-' ’Tis naught to me, 

Since God is ever present, ever felt, 

In the void waste as in the city full; 

And where He vital breathes, there must be joy.’ ” 

Saturday Night, Half after Ten, 

What luxury of bliss I was enjoying at this time yesternight I My 
ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul: but you have 
refined, you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense of vir¬ 
tue, and a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex ! if ever 
I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you—if ever your lovely image 
is effaced from my soul. 

May I be lost, no eye to weep my end. 

And find no earth that’s base enough to bury me 1 ” 

What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the everyday chil¬ 
dren of the world ! Tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of 
the fields and forests; but, where sentiment and fancy unite their 
sweets, where taste and delicacy refine, where wit adds the flavor, and 
good sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is 
the hour of tender endearment I 





474 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CIV. 


TO CLARINDA. 


. . . I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit, 

Clarinda, if you ever forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will 
be miserable. 

Oh, what a fool I am in love! what an extravagant prodigal of af¬ 
fection ! Why are your sex called the tender sex, when 1 never have 
met with one who can repay me in passion ? They are either not so 
rich in love as I am, or they are niggards where 1 am lavish. 

O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways ! Thou see’st me 
here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom : do 
Thou direct to Thyself that ardent love, for which I have so often sought 
a return in vain from my fellow-creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet 
such a gift in store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, 
Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our 
band of love and friendship; watch over us, in all our outgoings and 
incomings for good ; and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong 
and indissoluble as the thread of man’s immortal life ! 

I am just going to take your blackbird, the sweetest, I am sure, that 
ever sung, and prune its wings a little. 

Sylvander. 


No. CV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morning. 

I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a 
line by way of a sin offering ; but, believe me, ’twas the sin of igno¬ 
rance. Could you think that I intended to hurt you by anything I said 
yesternight ? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, your 
delicacy, your sensibility. Oh, why should such glorious qualifications 
be the fruitful source of woe ! You have “ murdered sleep ” to me last 
night. I went to bed impressed with an idea that you were unhappy ; 
and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes 
of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you are not well 
this morning. 

-“If I unwitting have offended, 

Impute it not.” 

-“ But while we live 

But one short hour, perhaps, between us two 
Let there be peace.” 


If Mary has not gone by the time this reaches you, give her mj best 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


475 


compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the 
noblest love. 

I send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be 
about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm, 
that would protect from injury, or restore to rest, that bosom chord, 
“trembling alive all o’er,” on which hangs your peace of mind. I 
thought, vainly I fear thought, that the devotion of love—love strong 
as even you can feel, love guarded, invulnerably guarded by all the 
purity of virtue, and all the pride of honor—1 thought such a love might 
make you happy. Shall I be mistaken ? I can no more, for hurry. 

No. CVI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Friday Momiing, 7 o'clock. 

Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I suppose, my love, you 
and I showed her a scene which, perhaps, made her wish that she had 
a swain, and one who could love like me ; and ’tis a thousand pities that 
so good a heart as hers should want an aim, an object. I am miserably 
stupid this morning. Yesterday I dined wdth a baronet, and sat pretty 
late over the bottle. And ‘ ‘ who hath woe—who hath sorrow ? they that 
tarry long at the wine ; they that go to seek mixed wine.” Forgive me, 
likewise, a quotation from my favorite author. Solomon’s knowledge 
of the w^orld is very great. He may be looked on as the Spectator or 
Adventurer of his day : and it is, indeed, surprising what a sameness 
has ever been in human nature. The broken, but strongly characteriz¬ 
ing hints, that the royal author gives us of the manners of the court of 
Jerusalem and country of Israel are, in their great outlines, the same 
pictures that London and England, Versailles and France, exhibit some 
three thousand years later. The loves in the “ Song of Songs ” are all 
in the spirit of Lady M. W. Montagu, or Madame Ninon de I’Enclos; 
though, for my part, I dislike both the ancient and modern voluptu¬ 
aries ; and will dare to affirm, that such an attachment as mine to 
Clarinda, and such evenings as she and I have spent, are what these 
greatly respectable and deeply experienced judges of life and love never 
dreamed of. 

I shall be with you this evening between eight and nine, and shall 
keep as sober hours as you could wish. 

I am ever, my dear Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 


18—Burns—U 



476 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. evil. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[The “ Puritanic scrawl ” is an allusion to some reproaches which had 
been addressed to Mrs. M‘Lehose, on account of her intimacy with 
Burns.] 

My ever dearest Clarinda, 

I make a numerous dinner-party wait me while I read yours and 
w’rite this. Do not require that I should cease to love you, to adore 
you in my soul ; ’tis to me impossible: your peace and happiness are 
to me dearer than my soul. Name the terms on which you wish to see 
me, to correspond with me, and you have them. I must love, pine, 
mourn, and adore in secret; this you must not deny me. You will ever 
be to me 

“ Dear as the light that visits those sad eyes, 

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.” 

I have not patience to read the Puritanic scrawl. Damned sophistry 1 
Ye heavens, thou God of nature, thou Redeemer of mankind ! ye look 
down with approving eyes on a passion inspired by the purest flame, 
and guarded by truth, delicacy, and honor ; but the half-inch soul of 
an unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian bigot cannot forgive 
anything above his dungeon-bosom and foggy head. 

Farewell! I’ll be with you to-morrow evening; and be at rest in 
your mind. I will be yours in the way you think most to your happi¬ 
ness. 1 dare not proceed. 1 love, and will love you ; and will, with 
joyous confidence, approach the throne of the Almighty Judge of men 
with your dear idea ; and will despise the scum of sentiment and the 
mist of sophistry, 

Sylvander. 


No. CVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Wednesday, Midnight. 

Madam, 

After a wretched day, I am preparing for a sleepless night. I am 
going to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions—some 
time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be 
the advocate of Passion ; be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O God, 
as I plead the cause of truth ! 

I have read over your friend’s haughty, dictatorial letter ; you are 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


477 


only answerable to your God in such a matter. Who gave any fellow- 
creature of yours (a fellow-creature incapable of being your judge, be¬ 
cause not your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and 
insult, wantonly and inhumanly to insult, you thus ? 1 don’t wish, not 
even wish, to deceive you. Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my wit¬ 
ness how dear you are to me ; but though it were possible you could be 
still dearer to me, I would not even kiss your hand at the expense of 
your conscience. Away with declamation I let us appeal to the bar of 
common sense. It is not mouthing everything sacred ; it is not vague 
ranting assertions ; it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly as¬ 
suming, the dictatorial language of a Roman pontiff, that must dissolve 
a union like ours. Tell me. Madam, are you under the least shadow of 
an obligation to bestow your love, tenderness, caresses, affections, heart 
and soul, on Mr. M‘Lehose—the man who has repeatedly, habitually, 
and barbarously broken through every tie of duty, nature, or gratitude 
to you? The laws of your country, indeed, for the most useful reasons 
of policy and sound government, have made your person inviolate ; but 
are your heart and affections bound to one who gives not the least re¬ 
turn of either to you ? You cannot do it; it is not in the nature of 
things that you are bound to do it; the common feelings of humanity 
forbid it. Have you, then, a heart and affections which are no man’s 
right? You have. It would be highly, ridiculously absurd to suppose 
the contrary. Tell me, then, in the name of common sense, can it be 
wrong, is such a supposition compatible with the plainest ideas of right 
and wrong, that it is improper to bestow the heart and these affections 
on another—while that bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful 
to your duty to God, to your children, to yourself, or to society at 
large ? 

This is the great test; the consequences: let us see them. In a 
widowed, forlorn, lonely situation, with a bosom glowing with love 
and tenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot indulge 
these nobler feelings except you meet with a man who has a soul 
capable. 

No. CIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

“I AM distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan.” I have suffered, 
Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal. I 
dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have wronged you, God forgive 
me. But, Clarinda, be comforted. Let us raise the tone of our feelings 
a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us—who spurns 
us without just cause, though once our bosom friend—up with a little 
honest pride : let him go ! How shall 1 comfort you, who am the cause 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


478 


of the injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen you—that w’e had 
never met? No, I never will. But, have I thrown you friendless?— 
there is almost distraction in the thought. Father of mercies ! against 
Thee often have I sinned : through Thy grace I will endeavor to do so 
no more. She who. Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself—pour 
Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about with 
Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights. Strengthen her ten¬ 
der, noble mind firmly to suffer and magnanimously to bear. Make 
me worthy of that friendship, that love she honors me with. May my 
attachment to her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life I 
O Almighty Goodness, hear me ! Be to her at all times, particularly in 
the hour of distress or trial, a friend and comforter, a guide and guard. 


" How are thy servants blest, O Lord, 
How sure is their defense 1 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 

Their help Omnipotence.” 


Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you. To-night I shall 
be with you, as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you. 

Sylvander. 


No. CX. 


TO CLARINDA, 

Two o'clock. 

I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless neg¬ 
ligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very serious 
with us ; then seriously hear me, and hear me. Heaven—I met you, my 
dear . . . , by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, 
1 loved you at first sight; the longer I am acquainted with you, the 
more innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. You have suf¬ 
fered a loss, 1 confess, for my sake : but if the firmest, steadiest, warm¬ 
est friendship—if every endeavor to be worthy of your friendship—if a 
love, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion—if 
all these can make anything like a compensation for the evil I have 
occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least 
add to your enjoyments-so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in his 
hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda 1 

I esteem you, 1 love you as a friend : 1 admire you, I love you as a 
woman beyond any one in all the circle of creation; I know I shall 
continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you—nay, to pray for 
myself for your sake. 

Expect me at eight—and believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, 

Yours most entirely, 

Sylvander. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


479 


No. CXI. 


TO CLARINDA. 


When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate 
face— 


“ On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man 


or, as the same author finely says in another place, 


“ Let thy soul spring up 

And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee.” 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look 
forward : in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other, out of the pos¬ 
sibility of seeing you ; till then, I shall write you often, but visit you 
seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me 
than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the present 
moment is the worst; the lenient hand of time is daily and hourly 
either lightening the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. 

None of these friends—I mean Mr.-and the other gentleman—can 

hurt your worldly support; and of their friendship, in a little time you 
will learn to be easy, and by and by to be happy without it. A decent 
means of livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful con¬ 
science, and one firm trusty friend—can anybody that has these be said 
to be unhappy ? These are yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight, probably for the 
last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of 
these two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am 
the man, I do not think they are entitled to any information. As to 
their jealousy and spying, I despise them. Adieu, my dearest Madam I 

Sylvander. 


No. CXII. 


TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

[Edinburgh, 1788.] 

My Dear Friend, 

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I 
promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which 
has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing. Dissipation 
and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an 
honest Scotch enthusiast,^ a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and 


^ Mr. Johnson, publisher of the Scots Musical Museum, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


480 

has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to 
music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, 
you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have 
collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs I could meet with. 
“ Pompey’s Ghost,’' words and music, I beg from you immediately, to 
go into his second number—the first is already published. I shall show 
you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a 
fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two 
—you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank’s, St. James’s Square, New Town, 
Edinburgh.—R. B. 


No. CXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me ; not that you say them, but 
that you mistake me. Religion, my honored Madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have 
indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas! I have 
ever been “ more fool than knave.” A mathematician without relig¬ 
ion is a probable character ; an irreligious poet is a monster.—R. B. 


No. CXIV. 

TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Edinburgh, 14th February, 1788. 

Reverend and Dear Sir, 

I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting 
vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you 
sent me appearing in the magazine. I had given a copy or two to some 
of my intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the 
publication of the magazine. However, as it does great honor to us 
both, you will forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is pub¬ 
lished to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark 
of veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your character, 
and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your songs 
appear in the third volume, with your name in the index ; as I assure 
you. Sir, I have heard your “ Tullochgorum,” particularly among our 
west country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


481 


to the immortal author of “ The Minstrel,” who indeed never wrote 
anything superior to “ Gie’s a sang, Montgomery cried.” Your brother 
has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly’s reel, which 
certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruik- 
shank, of the High School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in 
this age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for the 
entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, that I bor¬ 
rowed for him from your acquaintance, and much-respected friend in 
this place, the Reverend Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruikshank maintains 
that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to¬ 
morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in 
your last, to the tune of “ Dumbarton Drums,” and the other, which 
you say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall 
thank you for a copy of each. 

I am ever, reverend Sir, 

With the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, 

R. B. 


No. CXV. 


TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Edinburgh, February 15, 1788. 

My dear Friend, 

I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 
Glasgow on Monday evening ; and beg, if possible, you will meet me on 
Tuesday. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at Davies's 
Black Bull Inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else I should 
go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if possible, 
to Glasgow, on Monday : or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauchline ; and 
name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this date, 
where I may meet you. I only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and return 
to Edinburgh. 

I am ever, my dearest Friend, yours, 

R. B. 


No. CXVI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Sunday [February 17]. 
To-morrow, my dear Madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all 
my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in, I could not find ; 
and, indeed, after the necessary support my brother and the rest of the 
family required, I could not venture on farming in that style suitable 




4«2 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


to my feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken ; 
I have entered into the Excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, 
and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks’ instructions; afterwards, 
for I get employ instantly, I go oii il plait d Dieu—et mon roi. I have 
chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question 
is not at what door of fortune’s palace shall we enter in, but what doors 
does she open to us ? I was not likely to get anything to do. 1 wanted 
un biit, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this with¬ 
out any hanging on, or mortifying solicitation : it is immediate bread ; 
and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my ex¬ 
istence, ’tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life : besides, the 
commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them 
my firm friends.—R. B. 


No. CXVII. 

TO MRS. ROSE, 

OF KILRAVOCK. 

[This is an acknowledgment of two Highland airs which Mrs. Rose 
had sent him, with a very kind letter.] 

Edinburgh, February, 17, 1788. 

Madam, 

You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have had 
on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for 
your obliging favor as would have tired your patience. It but poorly 
expresses my feelings to say, that 1 am sensible of your kindness. It 
may be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much 
more justly than Addison applies it— 

“ Some souls by instinct to each other turn.” 

There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from 
the cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost 
got into my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the 
intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or 
rather transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when 1 read your 
letter. My ready fancy, with colors more mellow than life itself, 
painted the beautiful wild scenery of Kilravock ; the venerable grandeur 
of the castle; the spreading woods; the winding river, gladly leaving 
his unsightly, healthy source, and lingering with apparent delight as 
he passes the fairy walk at bottom of the garden; your late distressful 
anxieties ; your present enjoyments ; your dear little angel, the pride 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


483 


of your hopes; my aged friend, venerable in worth and years, whose 
loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the 
Almighty Spirit here, and His peculiar favor in a happier state of ex¬ 
istence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how much such feelings de¬ 
light me : they are my dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should 
I never revisit the north, as probably I never will, nor again see your 
hospitable mansion, were I some twenty years’ hence to see your little 
fellow’s name making a proper hgure in a newspaper paragraph, my 
heart would bound with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their 
proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included : among 
others I have given “ Morag,” and some few Highland airs which 
pleased me most, a dress which will be more generally known, though 
far, far inferior in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I 
beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed ; 
the Man of Feeling, that first of men, has promised to transmit it by 
the first opportunity. 

I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend and 
to your little Highland chieftain.* When you see the “ two fair spirits 
of the hill ” at Kildrummie,*tell them that I have done myself the honor 
of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty 
years to come—consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance 
for the same period ; but, as the Apostle Paul says, “ this I ask of grace, 
not of debt.” 

I have the honor to be. Madam, etc., 

R. B. 


No. CXVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

fOn the 18th of February, Burns left Edinburgh for Mossgiel, visit¬ 
ing Glasgow and Kilmarnock on his way. In a last fond interview, 
Sylvander and Clarinda had parted, but the correspondence was con¬ 
tinued. Sylvander had disclosed to Clarinda his unhappy liaison with 
Jean Armour and the prospect of a second pledge of illicit love. Cla¬ 
rinda in her replies speaks with kindness of Jean, but evidently looks 
forward on her own side to the prospect of a union with Burns, should 
her husband’s death leave her free to marry again. “You know,” she 
says, “1 count all things (Heaven excepted) but loss, that I may win 
and keep you.” How far Burns had any serious thoughts of marriage 
with Mrs. M‘Lehose, should circumstances permit it, it is difficult to 

1 The references in these two sentences are to Mrs. Rose’s mother and her son 
Hugh, and the young ladies of the neighborhood. 




484 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


say ; but at any rate he reckoned himself released from all obligations 
towards Jean Armour,’ except those of common humanity.] 

Glasgow, Monday Eveningy Nine o'clock. 

The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the at¬ 
traction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the 
nearer objects were to one another, the stronger was the attractive 
force. In my system, every milestone that marked my progress from 
Clarinda, awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you 
feel, my love? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. God forbid that 
these persecutors should harass that peace, which is more precious to 
me than my own. Be assured I shall ever think on you, muse on you, 
and in my moments of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are 
not in my thoughts, “ be that hour darkness ; let the shadows of death 
cover it; let it not be numbered in the hours of the day ! ” 

“ When I forget the darling theme, 

Be my tongue mute 1 my fancy paint no more 1 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat l ” 


I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain 1 —guess my 
pleasure; to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother 
William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me; 
and here are we three spending the evening. 

1 arrived here too late to write by post; but I will wrap half-a-dozen 
sheet of blank paper together, and send it by the Fly, under the name 
of a parcel. You will hear from me next post-town. I would write 
you a longer letter, but for the present circumstances of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda 1 1 am just going to propose your health by way 
of grace drink. 

Sylvander. 


No. CXIX. 


TO CLARINDA. 


Kilmarnock, Friday [Feb. 22]. 

I WROTE you, my dear Madam, the moment I alighted in Glasgow. 
Since then I have not had opportunity ; for in Paisley, where I arrived 
next day, my worthy, wise friend Mr. Pattison did not allow me a 
moment’s respite. I was there ten hours; during which time I was 
introduced to nine men worth six thousands; five men worth ten 
thousands ; his brother, richly worth twenty thousands; and a young 
weaver, who will have thirty thousands good when his father, who has 


* Mr. Richard Brown. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


485 


no more children than the said weaver, and a Whig kirk, dies. Mr. 
P. was bred a zealous Anti-burgher ; but during his widowerhood he 
has found their strictness incompatible with certain compromises he is 
often obliged to make with those powers of darkness—the devil, the 
world, and the flesh. ... His only daughter, who, “if the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale,” will have seven thousand pounds 
when her old father steps into the dark factory-office of eternity with 
his well-thrummed web of life, has put him again and again in a com¬ 
mendable fit of indignation by requesting a harpsichord. “O these 
boarding-schools I ” exclaims my prudent friend; “she was a good 
spinner and sewer till I was advised by her foes and mine to give her a 
year of Edinburgh 1 ” 

After two bottles more, my much-respected friend opened up to me 
a project—a legitimate child of Wisdom and Good Sense: ’twas no 
less than a long-thought-on and deeply-matured design, to marry a 
girl fully as elegant in her form as the famous priestess whom Saul 
consulted in his last hours, and who had been second maid of honor to 
his deceased wife. This, you may be sure, I highly applauded ; so I 
hope for a pair of gloves by and by. I spent the two bypast days at 
Dunlop House, with that worthy family to whom I was deeply in¬ 
debted early in my poetic career ; and in about two hours 1 shall pre¬ 
sent your “ twa wee sarkies ” to the little fellow. My dearest Clarinda, 
you are ever present with me ; and these hours, that drawl by among 
the fools and rascals of this world, are only supportable in the idea 
that they are the forerunners of that happy hour that ushers me to 
the ‘ Mistress of my soul.” Next week I shall visit Dumfries, and next, 
again return to Edinburgh. My letters, in these hurrying dissipated 
hours, will be heavy trash ; but you know the writer. God bless you I 

Sylvander. 


No. CXX. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[This letter refers to a proposal that Robert should become guarantee 
for his brother for a considerable amount. That his reluctance to as¬ 
sume the obligation did not arise from selfish motives is shown by his 
advance of 180/. to Gilbert soon afterwards, when he had realized the 
proceeds of his poems. J 

Mossgiel, Friday Morning, 

The language of refusal is to me the most difficult language on earth, 
and you are the man in the world, excepting one of Right Honorable 
designation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to hold such lan¬ 
guage. My brother has already got money, and shall want nothing in 




486 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


my power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you ; but to be 
security on so large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do, 
except I were in such circumstances of life as that the worst that 
might happen could not greatly injure me. 

1 never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I 
know the unhappy consequences; 1 shall incur the displeasure of a 
gentleman for whom 1 have the highest respect, and to whom I am 
deeply obliged. 

I am ever, Sir, 

Your obliged and very humble Servant, 

Robert Burns. 


No. CXXI. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Mossgiel, 2Uh February, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I arrived here, at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting my 
way through Paisley and Kilmarnock against those old powerful foes 
of mine—the devil, the world, and the flesh ; so terrible in the fields of 
dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which gave me 
so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life 
beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship. 
“ Oh youth ! enchanting stage, profusely blest.” Life is a fairy scene: 
almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a 
charming delusion ; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity of 
hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. 
When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict lookout in the course of 
economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of 
mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the companions of youth, 
that they may be the friends of age ; never to refuse my liquorish 
humor a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not too 
dear ; and, for futurity— 

The present moment Is our ain, 

The neist we never saw 1 


How like you my philosophy ? 
B., and believe me to be, 


Give my best compliments to Mrs, 


My dear Sir, yours most truly, 

R. B. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


487 


No. CXXII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Cumnock [Sunday], 2d March, 1788. 

I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda will not think my 
silence, for now a long week, has been in any degree owing to my for¬ 
getfulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I 
wrote you ; and am here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the 
post-office of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his 
corn, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation 
almost equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch’s mandate, 
when he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had 
the venerable prophet been as throng [busy] as I, he had not broken 
the decree, at least not thrice a day. 

I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy, intelli¬ 
gent farmer, my father’s friend and my own, has been with me on the 
spot: he thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more seri¬ 
ous review of the lands, much better pleased with them. I won’t men¬ 
tion this in writing to anybody but you and [Ainsliej. Don’t accuse 
me of being fickle : I have the two plans of life before me, and I wish 
to adopt the one most likely to procure me independence. I shall be in 
Edinburgh next week. I long to see you; your image is omnipresent 
to me ; nay, I am convinced I would soon idolatrize it most seriously— 
so much do absence and memory improve the medium through which 
one sees the much-loved object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, 
I expect to meet you—at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home 
to-night, to find a letter from you at the post-office in Mauchline. I 
have just once seen that dear hand since I left Edinburgh—a letter in¬ 
deed which much affected me. Tell me, first of womankind ! will my 
warmest attachment, my sincerest friendship, my correspondence— 
will they be any compensation for the sacrifices you make for my sake ? 
If they will, they are yours. If I settle on the farm I propose, I am 
just a day and a half’s ride from Edinburgh. We will meet—don’t you 
say “ perhaps too often ! ” 

Farewell, my fair, my charming poetess! May all good things ever 
attend you I 

I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 




488 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CXXIII. 

TO MR. WM. CRUIKSHANK. 

Mauchline, 3d March, 1788. 

My Dear Sir, 

Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for not 
singing—the apology better than the song. I have fought my way 
severely through the savage hospitality of this country, (the object of 
all hosts being) to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. . . . 

I should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank 

for the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring 
bard, who was spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic 
wickednesses in high places; but I am afraid lest you should burn the 
letter whenever you come to the passage, so I pass over it in silence. I 
am just returned from visiting Mr. Miller’s farm. The friend whom I 
told you I would take with me was highly pleased with the farm ; and 
as he is, without exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, 
he has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before 
me ; I shall balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the 
most eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when 
I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week ; 
I would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear 
for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. 
I only mention these ideas to you ; and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, 
whom I intend writing to to-morrow, I will not write at all to Edin¬ 
burgh till I return to it. I would send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, 
but he would be hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody, and not to him ; 
so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest compliments to my worthy 
hostess and the sweet little Rosebud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an excise-officer 
or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from a regular corre¬ 
spondence with the only man almost I ever saw who joined the most 
attentive prudence with the warmest generosity. 

I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood. I hope he is 
in better health and spirits than when I saw him last. 

1 am ever, my dearest Friend, 

Your obliged, humble Servant, 

- R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


489 


No. CXXIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 


Mauchline, dd March, 1788. 

My dear Friend, 

I am just returned from Mr. Miller’s farm. My old friend whom 
I took with me \yas highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me 
to accept of it. He is the most intelligent, sensible farmer in the 
county, and his advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the two 
plans before me: I shall endeavor to balance them to the best of my 
judgment, and fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. 
Miller in the same favorable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall 
in all probability turn farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffeting of 
the Wicked One, since I came to this country. Jean I found banished 
like a martyr—forlorn, destitute and friendless. I havo reconciled her 
to her mother. . . . 

I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas 
I shall keep quiet till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and 
she tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I 
wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and 
yesterday from Cumnock, as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed, she is 
the only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How 
are your soul and body putting up ?—a little like man and wife, 1 
suppose. 

Your faithful Friend, 

R. B. 


No. CXXV. 


[TO-?] 

[The next letter is supposed by Allan Cunningham to be addressed to 
Mr. Robert Ainslie, under date Mauchline, July, 1787, but Mr. R. 
Chambers suspects there is an error here both as to date and super¬ 
scription.] 

Mauchline, between dd and 8th March, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry ; that 
savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong liquors is the 
devil. I have a sore warfare in this world—the devil, the w^orld, and 
the flesh are three formidable foes. The first I generally try to fly 
from; the second, alas I generally flies from me; but the third is my 
plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. 




490 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


I have been looking over several farms in this country ; one, in par¬ 
ticular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to the pro¬ 
prietor is accepted, 1 shall commence farmer at Whitsunday. If 
farming do not appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my other shift; ^ 
but this to a friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning : how long I stay there 
is uncertain, but you will know so soon as 1 can inform you myself. 
However, I determined poesy must be laid aside for some time; my 
mind has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort 
to habituate it to the routine of business. 

1 am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 


No. CXXVI. 


SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[March Uh, 1788.] 

I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda: I should have written you last week. 
But when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of this night’s 
post is only the third 1 have from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth 
I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for 
unkindness. I have always some kind of idea not to sit down to write 
a letter, except I have time, and possession of my faculties, so as to do 
some justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. 
For instance, yesterday, I dined at a friend’s at some distance; the 
savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night 
over the nauseous potion in the bowl. This day—sick—headache—low 
spirits—miserable—fasting, except for a draught of water or small 
beer. Now eight o’clock at night; only able to crawl ten minutes’ 
walk into Mauchline, to wait the post, in the pleasurable hope of 
hearing from the mistress of my soul. 

But truce with all this I When I sit down to write to you, all is hap¬ 
piness and peace. A hundred times a day do I figure you before your 
taper, your book or work laid aside as I get within the room. How 
happy have I been! and how little of that scantling portion of time, 
called the life of man, is sacred to happiness, much less transport. 

1 could moralize to-night like a death’s-head. 

“ O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all I 
A drop of honey in a draught of gall.” 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels 


1 The Excise. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


491 


of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. 
“ None saith, Where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night: 
who teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and 
more understanding than the fowls of the air ? ” 

Give me, my Maker, to remember Thee ! Give me to act up to the 
dignity of my nature I Give me to feel “ another’s woe ; ” and continue 
with me that dear loved friend that feels with mine I 
The dignifying and dignified consciousness of an honest man, and the 
well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial 
foundations of happiness. . . . 

I could not have written a page to any mortal except yourself. I’ll 
write you by Sunday’s post. Adieu ! Good night 1 

Sylvander. 


No. cxxvn. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Mossgiel, '7th March, 1788. 

Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness— 
a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Deca¬ 
logue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles excepted—that I believe 
I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You 
have often allowed me the head to judge and the heart to feel the in- 
fiuence of female excellence : was it not blasphemy then, against your 
own charms and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight 
could abate my passion ? 

You, my love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you ; but 
they are the usual occurrences of life. Your future views are fixed, 
and your mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest 
Madam, make a little allowance for a man, after long absence, paying 
a short visit to a country full of friends, relations, and early intimates ? 
Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what 
anxious forebodings, hopes, and fears, must crowd the breast of the 
man of keen sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his 
employment, his very existence through future life ? 

To be overtopped in anything else, I can bear; but in the tests of 
generous love, I defy all mankind ! not even to the tender, the fond, the 
loving Clarinda; she whose strength of attachment, whose melting 
soul, may vie with Eloise and Sappho ; not even she can overpay the 
affection she owes me ! 

Now that, not my apology, but my defense is made, I feel my soul 
respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justifica¬ 
tion ; would to Heaven you could in my adoption, too I I mean an 






492 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


adoption beneath the stars—an adoption where 1 might revel in the im¬ 
mediate beams of 

She the bright sun of all her sex.” 

I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nim- 
mo's coldness. ’Tis placing yourself below her, an honor she by no 
means deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in hap¬ 
piness—we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own 
character; and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, 
and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property; 
and those who seem to doubt or deny us what is justly ours, let us either 
pity their prejudices or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you 
will say this is self-conceit; but I call it self-knowledge : the one is the 
overweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes 
himself to be thought; the other is the honest justice that a man of 
sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. 
Without this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually 
at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the 
very weakness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine which, 
I assure you, I sometimes need, and because I know that this causes you 
often much disquiet. To return to MissNimmo. She is most certainly 
a worthy soul; and equaled by very, very few in goodness of heart. 
But can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even 
prejudice will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Cla¬ 
rinda sees far beyond her. To wit. Miss Nimmo dare make no pretense : 
to Clarinda’s wit, scarce any of her sex dare make pretense. Personal 
charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel: and for conduct in 
life. Miss Nimmo was never called out, either much to do, or to suffer. 
Clarinda has been both ; and has performed her part, where MissNimmo 
would have sunk at the bare idea. 

Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Let us pray with the honest 
weaver of Kilbarchan, “ Lord, send us a gude conceit o’ oursel’ I ” or in 
the words of the auld sang. 


” Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, 

And I’ll never mind any such foes." 

There is an error in the commerce of intimacy. . . . 

Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, 
who is qualified to deal with us on our own terms ; but that is a rarity: 
with almost everybody we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and 
learn in the old Scots phrase, “Togie sic like as we get.” For this 
reason we should try to erect a kind of bank or storehouse in our own 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


493 


mind ; or, as the Psalmist says, “We should commune with our own 
hearts and be still.” . . . 

I wrote you yesternight, which will reach you long before this can. 
I may write Mr. Ainslie before I see him, but I am not sure. 

Farewell! and remember 

Sylvander. 

No. CXXVIII. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

[Jean Armour having been put to the door by her father. Burns felt 
bound to provide her an asylum. She bore twins (daughters), who 
died in a few days. Of the first pair of twins, born in September, 1786, 
the girl died fourteen months after—the boy was taken charge of by 
his grandmother at Mossgiel.J 

Mauchline, “Ith March, 1788. 

I HAVE been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an 
opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will be gone 
out of the country too. I have been looking at farms, and after all, 
perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious 
a bent to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that 
it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the 
routine ; but you will say a “ great effort is worthy of you.” I say so 
myself, and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments 
I can think of. Men of grave geometrical minds, the sons of “ which 
was to be demonstrated,” may cry up reason as much as they please ; 
but I have always found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest 
auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always comes 
to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband—just in sufiS- 
cient time to add her reproaches to his other grievances. 

[After explaining his relations with Jean Armour, Burns says :—J 

1 am gratified with your kind inquiries after her ; as, after all, I may 
say with Othello— 


-“ Excellent wretch ! 

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee.” 


1 go for Edinburgh on Monday. Yours, 


R. B. 




494 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CXXIX. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 

Dear Sir, 

I have partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. 
I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller’s farm ; and he was so 
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if he 
accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer—the happiest of lives when a 
man can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a 
week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but 
there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Gal- 
ston and Newmills, and I shall set off so early as to despatch my busi¬ 
ness and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a 
forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the 
kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some 
credit and comfort at home, there was not any friendship or friendly 
correspondence that promised me more pleasure than yours ; I hope I 
will not be disappointed. I trust the spring will renew your shattered 
frame, and make your friends happy. You and 1 have often agreed 
that life is no great blessing, on the whole. The close of life, indeed, 
to a reasoning age, is 

“ Dark as was Chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was rolled together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound.” 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, 
the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to molder with the clods 
of the valley, be it so ; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, 
and wants : if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent 
destruction of the man—away with old-wife prejudices and tales! 
Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as 
the many are always weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps 
always, been deceived. A man conscious of having acted an honest 
part among his fellow-creatures—even granting that he may have been 
the sport at times of passions and instincts—he goes to a great un¬ 
known Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence 
but to make him happy ; who gave him those passions and instincts, 
and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far 
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where, 
indeed, all men are equally in the dark. 

Adieu, my dear Sir. God send us a cheerful meeting I—R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


495 


No. CXXX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 


Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 

Madam, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me 
most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That 
I am often a sinner, with any little wit I have, I do confess: but I 
have taxed my recollection to no purpose to find out when it was em¬ 
ployed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse 
than I do the devil—at least as Milton describes him ; and though I 
may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot 
endure it in others. You, my honored friend, who cannot appear in 
any light but you are sure of being respectable—you can afford to pass 
by an occasion to display your wit, because ypu may depend for fame 
on your sense ; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely 
on the gratitude of many and the esteem of all; but God help us who 
are wits or witlings by profession ; if we stand not for fame there, 
we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila.^ I may say 
to the fair painter who does me so much honor, as Dr. Beattie says to 
Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took the 
idea of Coila (’tis a poem of Beattie’s in the Scottish dialect, which 
perhaps you have never seen):— 


‘ Ye shake your head, but o’ my fegs. 
Ye’ve set auld Scota on her legs : 

Lang had she lien wi’ beffs and flegs, 

Bumbaz’d and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae’s me, poor hizzie.” 


R. B. 


No. CXXXI. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[Burns left Mauchline on the 10th of March to return to Edinburgh, 
and decided to lease a farm from Mr. Miller.] 

Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 

I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news 
when I tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I 


1 A daughter of Mrs. Dunlop was painting a sketch of Coila. 



496 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of 
Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above 
Dumfries. I began at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, etc. ; 
and Heaven be my help I for it will take a strong effort to bring my 
mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of 
my former pursuits, fancies and pleasures—a motley host!—and have 
literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I 
have incorporated into a lifeguard. I trust in Dr. Johnson’s observa¬ 
tion, “ Where much is attempted, something is done.” Firmness, both 
in sufferance and exertion, is a character I would wish to be thought 
to possess; and have always despised the whining yelp of complaint, 
and the cowardly, feeble resolve. 

Poor Miss [Kennedy, sister of Mrs. Gavin Hamilton] is ailing a good 
deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you, the first 
time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman is often made in 
vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too 
noble for the dirt of avarice ; and even too gentle for the rage of pleas¬ 
ure ; formed indeed for and highly susceptible of, enjoyment and rapt¬ 
ure ; but that enjoyment, alas I almost wholly at the mercy of the 
caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times 
comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal.—R. B. 

No. CXXXII. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morning March], 

I WILL meet you to-morrow, Clarinda, as you appoint. My Excise 
affair is just concluded, and I have got my order for instructions: so 
far good. Wednesday night I am engaged to sup among some of the 
principals of the Excise, so can only make a call for you that evening ; 
but next day, I stay to dine with one of the Commissioners, so cannot 
go till Friday morning. 

Your hopes, your fears, your cares, my love, are mine ; so don’t mind 
them. I will take you in my hands through the dreary wilds of this 
world, and scare away the ravening bird or beast that would annoy 
you. I saw Mary in town to-day, and asked her if she had seen you. 
I shall certainly bespeak Mr. Ainslie, as you desire. 

Excuse me, my dearest angel, this hurried scrawl and miserable paper: 
circumstances make both. Farewell till to-morrow. 


Sylvander. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


497 


No. CXXXIII. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Monday Noon [18^/i March], 

I AM just hurrying away to wait on the Great Man, Clarinda ; but I 
have more respect to my own peace and liappiness than to set out with¬ 
out waiting on you ; for my imagination, like a child’s favorite bird, 
will fondly flutter along with this scrawl, till it perch on your bosom. 
I thank you for all the happiness you bestowed on me yesterday. The 
walk—delightful; the evening—rapture. Do not be uneasy to-day, 
Clarinda ; forgive me. I.am in rather better spirits to-day, though I had 
but an indifferent night. Care, anxiety, sat on my spirits ; and all the 
cheerfulness of this morning is the fruit of some serious, important 
ideas that lie, in their realities, beyond “ the dark and the narrow house,” 
as Ossian, prince of poets, says. The Father of Mercies be with you, 
Clarinda ! and every good thing attend you ! 

Sylvander. 


No. CXXXIV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Wednesday Morning [ \^th March], 

Clarinda, will that envious nightcap hinder you from appearing at 
the window as I pass ? “ Who is she that looketh forth as the morning ; 

fair as the sun, clear as the moon, terrible as an army with banners ?” 

Do not accuse me of fond foUy for this line; you know I am a cool 
lover. I mean by these presents greeting, to let you to wit, that arch- 
rascal Creech has not done my business yesternight, which has put off 
my leaving town till Monday morning. To-morrow at eleven I meet 
with him for the last time just the hour I should have met far more 
agreeable company. 

You will tell me this evening whether you cannot make our hour of 
meeting to-morrow one o’clock. I have just now written Creech such a 
letter, that the very goose-feather in my hand shrunk back from the 
line, and seemed to say, “ I exceedingly fear and quake ! ” I am form¬ 
ing ideal schemes of vengeance. . . . Adieu, and think on. 

Sylvander. 



498 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CXXXV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Friday Nine o'clock^ Night [21sf March], 

I AM just now come in, and have read your letter. The first thing I 
did was to thank the divine Disposer of events, that He has had such 
happiness in store for me as the connection I have with you. Life, my 
Clarinda, is a weary, barren path ; and woe be to him or her that 
ventures on it alone ! For me, I have my dearest partner of my soul: 
Clarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I 
am, I shall constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the 
world around me, and what adventures I meet with. Will it please 
you, my love, to get every week, or at least every fortnight, a packet, 
too or three sheets, full of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes, and old 
songs? Will you open, with satisfaction and delight, a letter from a 
man who loves you, who has loved you, and who will love you to death, 
through death, and forever ? Oh, Clarinda ! what do 1 owe to Heaven 
for blessing me with such a piece of exalted excellence as you ! I call 
over your idea, as a miser counts over his treasure. Tell me, were you 
studious to please me last night? I am sure you did it to transport. 
How rich am I who have such a treasure as you I You know me ; you 
know how to make me happy; and you do it most effectually. God 
bless you with 

“Long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend.” 

To-morrow night, according to your own direction, I shall watch the 
window : ’tis the star that guides me to paradise. The great relish to 
all is, that Honor, that Innocence, that Religion, are the witnesses 
and guarantees of our happiness. “ The Lord God knoweth,” and per¬ 
haps “ Israel he shall know,” my love and your merit. Adieu, Cla¬ 
rinda I 1 am going to remember you in my prayers. 

Sylvander. 

No. CXXXVI. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasgow, 2Uh March, 1788. 

I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, in not writing to you, and 
sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack extended 
as I have taken a farm, and I have been racking shop accounts with 
Mr. Creech ; both of which, together with watching, fatigue, and a load 
of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some degree actually 
fevered me. I really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me ; 
but I was convulsed with rage a great part of the day.—R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


499 


No. CXXXVII. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

[Burns’s care and anxiety at this time were due not merely to busi¬ 
ness arrangements, but to the news he had just received of the birth 
and speedy death of his offspring by Jean Armour.] 

Mauchline, 31sf Marchy 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melan¬ 
choly, joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, 
I turned my thoughts to psalms and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and 
your favorite air, “ Captain O’Kean,” coming at length into my head, 
I tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune 
must be repeated. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 

The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, ^r what an seem fair, 

While the lingering momen* re numbered by care ? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses ; but as I have only a sketch 
of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety about this farming project of 
mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into 
the routine of business, 1 shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; per¬ 
haps with some queries respecting farming; at present, the world sits 
such a load on my mind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the 
poet in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn.-—R. B, 

No. CXXXVIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBURGH. 

Mauchline, Ith ApHl, 1788. 

I have not delayed so long respecting you, my much respected 
friend, because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long since 
given up that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down 

18—Burns—V 



500 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


irksomely to write a letter, because we think we are in duty bound s« 
to do. 

I have been roving over the country, as the farm I have taken is forty 
miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; but most 
of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. 
As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master 
of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn ; add to this, my 
late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an 
alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious 
and hourly study. I have dropt all conversation and all reading (prose 
reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Ex¬ 
cept one worthy young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in 
Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. 
The world of wits and gens comme il faut which I lately left, and with 
whom I never again will intimately mix—from that port. Sir, I expect 
your Gazette ; what les beaux esprits are saying, what they are doing, 
and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from my seques¬ 
tered walks of life ; any droll original; any passing remark, important 
forsooth, because it is mine ; any little poetic effort, however embryoth ; 
these, my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from me. When I talk 
of poetic efforts, I must have it always understood that I appeal from 
your wit and taste to your friendship and good nature. The first would 
be my favorite tribunal, where I defied censure ; but the last, where I 
declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet 
with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a 
peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better health vthan I did last time 
I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, 
were it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal 
[at rest]. Now, never shun the idea of writing me, because perhaps 
you may be out of humor or spirits. I could give you a hundred good 
consequences attending a dull letter ; one, for example, and the remain¬ 
ing ninety-nine some other time—it will always serve to keep in coun¬ 
tenance, my much respected Sir, 

Your obliged Friend and humble Servant, 

R. B. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


501 


No. CXXXIX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Mauchline, April, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss 
Kennedy. Strange, how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg¬ 
ments of one another I Even I, who pique myself on my skill in mark¬ 
ing characters—because I am too proud of my character as a man to be 
dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth, and too proud of my situa¬ 
tion as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty—I was unac¬ 
quainted with Miss K.’s very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in mon grand hut —the sober 
science of life. I have lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I 
vivd voce with you to paint the situation and recount the circumstances, 
you would applaud me.—R. B. 


No. CXL. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

[Burns’s allusion in the preceding letter to the “sacrifices” he had 
made is supposed to refer to his resolution to recognize Jean Armour as 
his wife, and make her, in the familiar country phrase, an honest 
woman. In the following letter we have the first distinct formal an¬ 
nouncement of his new relations with Jean.] 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the 
opening of a correspondence, like the opening of a. twenty-four gun 
battery! 

There is no understanding a man properly without knowing some¬ 
thing of his previous ideas—that is to say, if the man has any ideas; 
for I know many who, in the animal muster, pass for men, that are the 
scanty masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the 
greatest part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas, 
1*25—1*5—1*75 (or some such fractional matter); so, to let you a little 
into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain 
clean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussey of your acquaint¬ 
ance, to whom* I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to 
my corpus. 

“ Bode a robe and wear it, 

Bode a poke and bear it.” » 



502 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Says the wise old Scots adage! I hate to presage ill-luck; ana 
as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of 
women usually are to their partners of our sex, in similar circum¬ 
stances, 1 reckon on twelve times a brace of children against 1 celebrate 
my twelfth wedding day. . . . 

“ Light’s heartsome,” quo’ the wife when she was stealing sheep. 
You see what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you 
are idle enough to explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. 
’Tis now as plain as a pikestaff why a twenty-four gun battery was a 
metaphor 1 could readily employ. 

Now for business. I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed 
shawl, an article of which I daresay you have variety ; ’tis my first 
present to her since I have irrevocably called her mine; and I have a 
kind of whimsical wish to get the first said present from an old and 
much-valued friend of hers and mine—a trusty Trojan, whose friend¬ 
ship 1 count myself possessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a “beginning of sorrows”; I will write you 
till your eyes ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns (’tis only her private designation) begs her best compli¬ 
ments to you.—R. B. 


No. CXLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 28f/i April, 1788. 

Madam, 

Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure 
you they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I 
was really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will 
easily guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me 
only six months’ ^ attendance for instructions to entitle me to a com¬ 
mission—which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on 
my simple petition, can be resumed—1 thought five-and-thirty pounds 
a year was no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if Fortune in her jade 
tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she has 
lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have 
them completed before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the 
sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother’s 
on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding 
I had slept in an apartment where the force of the winds and rains 


^ Mistake for weeks. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


503 


was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in 
the windows, walls, etc. In consequence I was on Sunday, Monday, 
and part of Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable 
effects of a violent cold. 

You see. Madam, the truth of the French maxim, le vrai n'est pas 
toujours le vraisemblable. Your last was so full of expostulation, and 
was something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began 
to tremble for a correspondence which I had with grateful pleasure set 
down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me; Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso, were all 
equally strangers to me; but of this more at large in my next. 

R. B. 


No. CXLII. 

TO PROFESSOR STEWART. 


Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 

Sir, 

I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent 
wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great unknown 
Being who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and hap¬ 
piness will attend your visit to the continent, and return you safe to 
your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint 
you with my progress in my trade of rhymes, as I am sure I could say 
it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my 
power to make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made 
dear to me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, 
your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence of my late 
success in life. 

R. B. 


No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 


Mauchline, ith May, 1788. 

Madam, 

Dryden’s Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the 
critics will agree with me, but the Georgies are to me by far the best 
of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirely new to me, and 
has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas! 
when I read the Georgies, and then survey my own powers, ’tis like 
the idea of a Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a thoroughbred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am disappointed in the AEneid, 




504 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Faultless correctness may please, and does lighly please, the lettered 
critic; but to that awful character I have not the most distant pre¬ 
tensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be 
a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, 
a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel 
many passages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means 
improved, Homer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing to 
the translators; for, from everything I have seen of Dry den, I think 
him, in genius and fluency of language. Pope’s master. 1 have not 
perused Tasso enough to form an opinion—in some future letter you 
shall have my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my criticisms must 
be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and la¬ 
mented my want of learning most. — R. B. 


No. CXLIV. 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 


Dear Uncle, 


Mossqiel, Uh May, 1788. 


This I hope will find you and your conjugal yokefellow in you/ 
good old way. I am impatient to know if the Ailsa fowling be com¬ 
menced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, 
and I hope you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt 
for me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in 
since I saw you last, but this know, I engaged in a smuggling trade, 
and God knows if ever any poor man experienced better returns—two 
for one; but as freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am 
thinking of taking out a license and beginning in fair trade. I have 
taken a farm on the borders of the Nith, and, in imitation of the old 
patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, 
and beget sons and daughters. 

Your obedient Nephew, 

R. B. 


No. CXLV. 


TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 


Mauchline, May 26, 1788. 

My dear Friend, 

I am two kind letters in your debt; but I have been from home, 
and horridly busy, buying and preparing for my farming business, over 
and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will 
finish. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


505 


As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years’ correspond¬ 
ence between us, ’tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles: a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I 
have been extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bargainings 
hitherto—Mrs. Burns [Jean Armour] not excepted ; which title I now 
avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this last affair; it has 
indeed added to my anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability 
to my mind and resolutions unknown before ; and the poor girl has the 
most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but 
to gratify my every idea of her deportment. 1 am interrupted. Fare¬ 
well, my dear Sir. — R. B. 


No. CXLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

mh May, 1788. 

Madam, 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account 
for that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return 
to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in 
the fleeting hours of my late will-o’-wisp appearance, that “ here I had 
no continuing city ; ” and, but for the consolation of a few solid 
guineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaint¬ 
ance with wealth and splendor put me so much out of conceit with 
the sworn companions of my road through life—insignificance and 
poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of 
the good things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on 
their trifling family affairs, compared with the very same things on 
the contracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honor to 
spend an hour or two at a good woman’s fireside, where the planks 
that compose the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the 
gay table sparkled with silver and china. ’Tis now about term-day, 
and there has been a revolution among those creatures, who, though 
in appearance partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the same 
nature with Madam, are from time to time—their nerves, their sinews, 
their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay a good 
part of their very thoughts—sold for months and years, not only to the 
necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the important few. 
We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay, notwithstanding their 
general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils the honor 
to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast who taught 
“Reverence thyself.” We looked down on the unpolished wretches, 




5o6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


their impertinent wives, and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on 
the little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care¬ 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his 
pride.—R. B. 


No. CXLVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MR. DUNLOP’S, HADDINGTON. 

[Burns was now fairly established at Ellisland getting the farm in 
order, and superintending the erection of a new house. He was alone, 
vexed with present cares and anxieties for the future, and miserably 
lodged. In building his farmhouse. Burns had, according to Allan 
Cunningham, to perform the part of superintendent of the works—to 
dig the foundations, collect the stones, seek the sand, cart the lime, and 
see that all was performed according to the specifications.] 

Ellisland, IWi {l^th P] June, 1788. 

“ "Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see, 

My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee ; 

Still to my friends it turns with ceaseless pain, 

And drags, at each remove, a lengthen’d chain.” 

Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honored friend, that I have been on my 
farm, A solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older 
than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare 1 ride on; while 
uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance 
and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my 
soul in the hour of care, consequently the dreary objects seem larger 
than the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the 
gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and disappointments, at that 
period of my existence when the soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for 
the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy 
frame of mind. 

” The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 

Or what need he regard his single woes ? &c.” 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. . . . 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My preservative 
from the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of 
honor, and her attachment to me : my antidote against the last is my 
long and deep-rooted affection for her. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


507 


In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute she is 
eminently mistress; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is regu¬ 
larly and constantly apprentice to my mother and sisters in their dairy 
and other rural business. 

The Muses must not be offended when I tell them the concerns of my 
wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pas; but I assure 
them their ladyships will ever come next in place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more 
friends ; but, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the 
enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approach¬ 
ing my God, would seldom have been of the number. 

I found a once much loved and still much-loved female, literally and 
truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but I enabled her to 
purchase a shelter—there is no sporting with a fellow-creature’s hap¬ 
piness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm 
heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may 
make a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the 
Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter 
assembly than a penny pay wedding.—R. B. 


No. CXLVIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 14 [15?], 1788. 

This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in 
these regions ; and during these three days you have occupied more of 
my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several 
variations of friendship’s compass, here it points invariable to the pole. 
My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate 
the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well 
—“ Why should a living man complain ?” 

I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky 
imperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of 
craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment 
to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of 
the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honor : I take it to 
be, in some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


508 


metaphor apart, some modification of dulness. In two or three in¬ 
stances lately I have been most shamefully out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms 
among the light-horse—the picket-guards of fancy—a kind of hussars 
and Highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of 
these giddy battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the 
foe, or of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am de¬ 
termined to buy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, 
or the artillery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, 
besides the great studies of your profession ? You said something about 
religion in your last. I don’t exactly remember what it was, as the 
letter is in Ayrshire; but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly 
thought. You will make a noble fellow if once you were married, I 
make no reservation of your being well married: you have so much 
sense and knowledge of human nature, that, though you may not 
realize perhaps the ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill married. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting provi¬ 
sion for a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, I look to the Excise 
scheme as a certainty of maintenance. A maintenance!—luxury, to 
what either Mrs. Burns or I was born to. Adieu!—R. B. 


No. CXLIX. 

EXTRACT FROM COMMONPLACE BOOK. 

Ellisland, Sunday, lUli 9] June, 1788.i 

This is now the third day that I have been in this country. “ Lord ! 
what is man?” What a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, 
ideas, and fancies I And what a capricious kind of existence he has 
here .... There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, 
virtue sole survives. 

-“ Tell US, ye dead ; 

Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 

What ’tis you are, and we must shortly be ? 

--A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close.” 

I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would 
almost at any time with Milton’s Adam, “ gladly lay me in my mother’s 
lap, and be at peace.” 

1 Mr. R, Chambers suggests that the 14th of June, 1788, having been a Saturday, it 
may be surmised that Burns* wrote several dates at this time a day too early. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


509 


But a wife and children bind me to struggle with the stream, till 
some sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel; or, in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now 
to those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though half sanc¬ 
tified by the bewitching levity of wit and humor, are at best but thrift¬ 
less idling with the precious current of existence ; nay, often poisoning 
the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho, the ivater is naught and the 
ground barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally-gifted Elisha can 
ever after heal the evils. 

Wedlock—the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care—if 
virtue and religion were to be anything with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on : in my present situation it 
was absolutely necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of char¬ 
acter, justice to my own happiness for after life, so far as it could 
depend (which it surely will a great deal) on eternal peace ; all these 
joined their warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with 
a rooted attachment, to urge the step I have taken. Nor have I any 
reason on her part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have never seen 
where, I could have made a better choice. Come, then, let me act up 
to my favorite motto, that glorious passage in Young— 

“ On reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man : ” 


No. CL. 


TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, 30^/^ June, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I just now received your brief epistle; and, to take vengeance 
on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, 
and have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the 
very last corner. 

lam vexed at that affair of the . . . , but dare not enlarge on the 
subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be 
altered on your late master and friend’s death [Mr. Samuel Mitchelson, 
W. S.] I am concerned for the old fellow’s exit only as I fear it may 
be to your disadvantage in any respect; for an old man’s dying, except 
he have been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situa¬ 
tion of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on 
him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the world. 
Man is naturally a kind, benevolent animal, but he is dropped into 
such a needy situation here in this vexatious world, and has such a 



510 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack of necessities, appetites, 
passions, and desires about him, ready to devour him for want of other 
food, that in fact he must lay aside his cares for others that he may 
look properly to himself. 

I desire the carrier to pay you; but as I mentioned only fifteen shil¬ 
lings to him, I will rather enclose you a guinea-note. I have it not, 
indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this 
place ; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there I have the 
bank-notes through the house like salt-permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one’s pri¬ 
vate affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new 
neighbors, who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes 
by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own 
too ; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell! 
Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, for¬ 
sooth, to crack their jokes on prudence; but ’tis a squalid vagabond 
glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters is 
much more pardonable than imprudence respecting character. I have 
no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice in some few instances ; but 
I appeal to your observation if you have not met, and often met, with 
the same disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity and dis¬ 
integrative depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion 
as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible rev¬ 
erence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave, and I wish that 
which piety believes and virtue deserves may be all matter of fact. 
But in things belonging to and terminating in this present scene of ex¬ 
istence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a 
man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished elevation of 
respect or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance ; 
whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty—at least enjoy 
himself in the comfortable latitude of easy convenience—or starve in 
the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he shall rise in a manly 
consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a galling load 
of regret and remorse—these are alternatives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasionally to sermonize too; I 
wish you would in charity favor me with a sheet full in your own way. 
I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift:— 
“ Adieu, dear Swift I with all thy faults I love thee entirely ; make an 
effort to love me with all mine ! ” Humble servant, and all that trum¬ 
pery, is now such a prostituted business, that honest friendship, in her 
sincere way, must have recourse to her primitive, simple. Farewell! 

R. B. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


51I 


No. CLI. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[Mr. Peter Hill, Creech’s chief assistant, who had now set up in busi¬ 
ness for himself.] 

Mauchline, 18th July, 1788. 

You injured me, my dear Sir, in your construction of the cause of 
my silence. From Ellisland in Nithsdale to Mauchline in Kyle is forty 
and five miles. There a house a-building, and farm enclosures and im¬ 
provements to tend ; here a new—not indeed so much a new as a young 
wife : good God, Sir, could my dearest brother expect a regular corre- 
respondence from me I ... I am certain that my liberal-minded and 
much-respected friend would have acquitted me, though I had obeyed 
to the very letter that famous statute among the irrevocable decrees of 
the Medes and Persians, not to ask petition, for forty days, of either 
God or man, save thee, O Queen, only ! 

I am highly obliged to you, my dearest Sir, for your kind, your ele¬ 
gant compliments on my becoming one of that most respectable, that 
truly venerable corps, they who are without a metaphor, the fathers 
of posterity. . . . 

Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further 
commissions. I call it troubling you—because I want only hoohs : the 
cheapest the best; so you may have to hunt for them in the 
evening auctions. I want Smollett’s works, for the sake of his incom¬ 
parable humor. I have already “ Roderick Random ” and “ Humphrey 
Clinker ” ; “ Peregrine Pickle,” “ Launcelot Greaves,” and “ Ferdinand 
Count Fathom.” I still want; but, as I said, the veriest ordinary copies 
will serve me. I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget 
the price of “ Cowper’s Poems,” but I believe I must have them. I saw 
the other day proposals fora publication entitled “ Bank’s New and 
Complete Christian’s Family Bible,” printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster 
Row, London. He promises at least to give in the work, I think it is, 
three hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the names of 
the first artists in London. You will know the character of the per¬ 
formance, as some numbers of it are published ; and if it is really what 
it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send me the pub¬ 
lished numbers. 

Let me hear from you your first leisure minute, and trust me you 
shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate, and leave me to pursue my course 
in the quiet path of methodical routine.—R. B. 



512 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CLH. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART. 

MERCHANT, GLASGOW. 

Mauchline, Wth July, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I am just going for Nithsdale, else I would certainly have tran¬ 
scribed some of my rhyming things for you. The Miss Baillies I have 
seen in Edinburgh. “Fair and lovely are thy works, Lord God 
Almighty I Who would not praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy 
goodness to the sons of men ? ” It needed not your fine taste to admire 
them. I declare one day I had the honor of dining at Mr. Baillie’s, I 
was almost in the predicament of the children of Israel, when they 
could not look on Moses’s face for the glory that shone in it when he 
descended from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the Falls of Bruar to his Grace 
of Athole when I was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland 
let me know, and I will send such of my pieces as please myself best. 
I return to Mauchliiie in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. 

I am in truth, but at present in haste, yours, 

R. B. 


No. CLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, August 2, 1788. 

Honored Madam, 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight to Ayrshire. I am 
indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the 
noble lord’s apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write to you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction 
there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-ofiice once 
in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it 
myself, and as yet have little acquaintance in the neighborhood. 
Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; 
as at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have 
scarce “where to lay my head.” 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


513 


There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. 
“The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith.’^ The repository of these “sorrows of the heart” is a 
kind of sanctum sanctorum ; and ’tisonly a chosen friend, and that, too, 
at particular sacred times, who dares enter into them: 

“ Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature finest strung.” 


You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of 
entering on thie subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neigh¬ 
borhood. They are almost the only favors the Muses have conferred 
on me in that country. . . . 

[Here follow the verses composed in the Friars’ Carse Hermitage, 
given in page 142]. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the pro¬ 
duction of yesterday, as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum¬ 
nock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I 
am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise 
hopes depend—Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the worthiest and most 
accomplished gentlemen not only of this country, but, I will dare to 
say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts 
“unhousel’d, unanointed unaneal’d — 

Pity the tuneful Muses’ helpless train , 

Weak, timid landsmen on life’s stormy main, 

The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 

Ah, that “ the friendly e’er should want a friend I ” 1 ^ 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage, proverb’d wisdom’s hard-wrung boon. 

Let Prudence number o’er each sturdy son 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 

Instinct’s a brute and sentiment a fool 1 
Who make poor will do wait upon 1 should ,* 

We own they’re prudent, but who owns they’re good t 

Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye; 

God’s image rudely etched on base alloy 1 
But come .... 

Here the Muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of 
Anthony’s writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire in 
ten days from this date. 1 have just room for an old Roman “ Fare- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


514 


No. CLIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, August [July 10, 1788. 

My IVIUCH HONORED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as 
another valued friend—my wife—waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: 
I met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not set down to answer every para¬ 
graph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons 
of Great Britain in Parliament assembled answering a speech from the 
best of kings. I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may 
perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not 
from your very odd reason, that I do not read your letters. All your 
epistles for several months have cost me nothing except a swelling 
throb of gratitude or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman . . . When she first 
found herself “ as women wish to be who love their lords,” as I loved 
her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
parents got the hint; and not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but, on my rumored West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put 
m© in jail till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. 
You know mj’- lucky reverse of fortune. On my eclatant return to 
Mauchline I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual con¬ 
sequences began to betray her; and as I was at that time laid up a 
cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned, out of doors, 
and I wrote to a friend to shelter her till my return, when our marriage 
was declared. Her happiness or misery was in my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? . . . 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of 
life; but, upon my honor, I have never seen the individual in¬ 
stance. . . . 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for 
life who could have entered into my favorite studies, relished my 
favorite authors, etc., without probably entailing on me, at the same 
time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, 
with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, which (par- 
donnez-moiy madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the 
upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be 
gentry. . . . 

I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that are 
the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


515 


place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, 
that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter in pro¬ 
gression by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I 
talk of sheets, I must tell you my reason for writing to you on paper of 
this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post 
is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it; and 
double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner are a mon¬ 
strous tax in a close correspondence.—R. B. 


No. CLV. 

, TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 16f/i August, 1788. 

I AM in a fine disposition, my honored friend, to send you an elegiac 
epistle, and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian :— 

“ Why droops my heart, with fancied woes forlorn ? 

Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ? ” 

My increasing cares in this as yet strange country—gloomy conjec¬ 
tures in the dark vista of futurity—consciousness of my own inability 
for the struggle of the world—my broadened mark to misfortune in a 
wife and children—I could indulge these refiections till my humor 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the 
very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings I have sat down to write to 
you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller’s [of Dalswinton] to dinner, for the first 
time. My reception was quite to my mind ; from the lady of the house 
quite fiattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two impromptu. 
She repeated one or two, to the admiration of all present. My suffrage 
as a professional man was expected ; I for once went agonizing over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, 
independence of spirit and integrity of soul I In the course of conver¬ 
sation “Johnson’s Musical Museum,” a collection of Scottish songs 
with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord 
beginning— 

“ Raving winds around her blowing.” 


The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were 
the words. “ Mine, Madam ; they are indeed my very best verses : ” she 



5i6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says 
well, “King’s caff is better than ither folks’ corn.” I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about “casting pearls,” but that 
would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. ... 

After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is 
by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favored by partial Heaven, whose souls are turned to gladness amid 
riches, and honors, and prudence, and wisdom. I speak of the neg¬ 
lected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, are sold to 
the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a 
stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called “The Life and Age of Man,” 
beginning thus:— 

“ ’Twas in the sixteen hundredth year 
Of God and fifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie.” 


I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her 
girlish years : the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and 
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of “The Life and 
Age of Man.” 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melancholy truths, that make 
religion so precious to the poor miserable children of men. If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 

“ What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? ” 


My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little skeptical, but the neces¬ 
sities of my heart give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for 
the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her God ; the corre¬ 
spondence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication and devout thanks¬ 
giving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? 
No : to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we 
must search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, 
poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the 
length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week : and it 
quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from you awaiting 
me here. I must be here again very soon for my harvest.—R. B. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


51; 


No. CLVI. 

TO MR. BEUGO, 

ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, Sept., 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the Graces whose 
letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social communication, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this 
country, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose 
they only know in graces, prayers, etc., and the value of these they 
estimate, as they do their plaiding webs, by the ell. As foY the Muses, 
they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old 
capricious but good-natured hussy of a Muse— 

“ By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
When Coila I thought on ; 

In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow trees upon.” 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my “ darling 
Jean ” ; and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my 
becobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her 
hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the “ Fortunate Shepherdess” as soon as I return to 
Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send 
it by a careful hand, as I would not for anything it should be mislaid 
or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other 
grave Christian virtue; ’tis purely a selfish gratification of my own 
feelings whenever I think of you. 

You do not tell me if you are going to be married. Depend upon 
it, if you do not make some foolish choice, it will be a very great im¬ 
provement on the dish of life. I can speak from experience though, 
God knows, my choice was as random as blind-man’s buff. . . . 

If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should 
be extremely happy ; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a 
regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a 
letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a 
quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you 




518 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works ; 
’twas a glorious idea.^ 

Could you conveniently do one thing?—whenever you finish any 
head, I should like to have a proof-copy of it. I might tell you a long 
story about your fine genius ; but as what everybody knows cannot 
have escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about it. 

If you see Mr. Nasmyth, remember me to him most respectfully, as 
he both loves and deserves respect; though, if he would pay less respect 
to the mere carcass of greatness, I should think him much nearer per¬ 
fection. R.B. 


No. CLVII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, 

EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 

Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie recover¬ 
ing her health ?—for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me. Madam ; and for my part 

“ When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 

Skill part from my right hand I ” 

“ My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.” I do 
not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its 
fellows—rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or 
impression, except where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as 
you and your sister once did me the honor of interesting yourselves 
much d regard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation- of your good¬ 
ness. I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw 
two whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul—I will not say 
more, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I 
think of you—hearts the best, minds the noblest, of liumankind—un¬ 
fortunate even in the shades of life—when I think I have met with 
you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight days than I can 
do with almost anybody I meet with in eight years—when I think on 
the improbability of meeting you in this world again—I could sit down 
and cry like a child! If ever you honored me with a place in your 
esteem, I trust 1 can now plead more desert. I am secure against that 

» It has been suggested that the work in question was a collection of articles in a 
very frigid style by Creech. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


519 


crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal to the 
native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls; and a late impor¬ 
tant step in my life has kindly taken me out of the w'ay of those un¬ 
grateful iniquities, which, however overlooked in fashionable license or 
varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper 
shades of villainy. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire I married “ my Jean.” This 
was not in consequence of the attachment of romance, perhaps ; but I 
had a long and much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery in my 
determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor 
have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish 
manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with 
the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the 
handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and 
the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her 
creed, that I am le plus hel esprit et le plus honnete homme in the 
universe, although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures 
of the Old and New Testament and the Psalms of David in meter, spent 
five minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also from 
this last a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused 
very devoutly, and all the ballads in the country, as she has (“ Oh, the 
partial lover ! ” you will cry) the finest “ wood-note wild ” I ever heard. 
I am the more particular in this lady’s character, as I know she will 
henceforth have the honor of a share in your best wishes. She is still 
at Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for this hovel that I shelter 
in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows and 
every shower that falls ; and I am only preserved from being chilled to 
death by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that 
pennyworth I was taught to expect; but 1 believe in time it may be a 
saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle 
eclat, and bind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in 
a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise instruc¬ 
tions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of 
fortune. If I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you, 
in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would 
approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail ; I know 
you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery 
of greatness I When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the 
same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness 
of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same 



520 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


scorn at everything unworthy—if they are not in the dependence of 
absolute beggary, in the name of common sense, are they not equals? 
And if the bias, the instinctive bias, of their soul run the same way, 
why may they not be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending this Heaven only knows. 
Shenstone says: “ When one is confined idle within doors by bad 
weather, the best antidote against ennui is to read the letters of or 
write to one’s friends : ” in that case, then, if the weather continues 
thus, I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately—namely, since harvest began—wrote a poem, not in 
imitation, but in the manner, of Pope’s “ Moral Epistles.” It is only a 
short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse’s pinion in that way. 
I will send you a copy of it when once I have heard from you. I have 
likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works : 
how the superstructure will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrer of projects—time. Johnson’s collection of Scots songs is going 
on in the third volume ; and, of consequence, finds me a consumpt for 
a great deal of idle meter. One of the most tolerable things I have 
done in that way is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman 
of my acquaintance [Captain Riddell of GlenriddellJ composed for the 
anniversary of his wedding-day, which happens on the 7th of Novem¬ 
ber. Take it as follows :— 

[Here comes “ The day returns, my bosom burns.”] 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a 
scribbling fit before this goes away, I shall make it another letter; 
and then you may allow your patience a week’s respite between the 
two. I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty Farewell I 

To make some amends, mes cheres mesdames, for dragging you on 
to this second sheet and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my un¬ 
studied and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late 
poetic bagatelles: though I have, these eight or ten months, done 
very Tittle that way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of the 
Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighborhood, who is so good 
as give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows, [“ Friars’ Carso Her 
mitage,”] supposing myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of 
the lonely mansion. ... R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


521 


No. CLVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 21th Sept ., 1788. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once, but scarcely 
ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th in¬ 
stant. To make myself understood; I had wrote to Mr. Graham, 
enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post which favored 
me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was dated the 
very day he had received mine ; and 1 am quite at a loss to say whether 
it was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honored benefactress, are truly the work of a 
friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair statement of cold impartiality, 
balancing with unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an author’s 
merits: they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, 
selecting the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from Nithsdale, 
and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this morning by 
three o’clock; for between my wife and my farm is just forty-six 
miles. As I jogged on in the dark, 1 was taken with a poetic fit as 
follows:— 

[Here is transcribed Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch’s lamentation 
for the death of her son—an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen 
or nineteen years of age.^J 


No. CLIX. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, 1s< October, 1788. 

I HAVE been here in this country about three days, and all that time 
my chief reading has been the “ Address to Lochlomond ” [by the Rev. 
Dr. Cririej you were so obliging as to send to me. Were I empaneled 
one of the author’s jury, to determinate his criminality respecting the 
sin of poesy, my verdict should be “ Guilty I A poet of Nature’s mak¬ 
ing ! ” It is an excellent method for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favorite classic author, in his own walks 

* “ The Mother’s Lament ” served a double purpose, having been first written in 
reference to young Fergusson, and then applied to the death of Alexander Gordon 
Stewart, only son of Mrs. Stewart of Afton, Burns’s early patroness. 



522 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


of study and composition, before him as a model. Though your author 
had not mentioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his 
model to be Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive me if I venture to 
hint that his imitation of that immortal bard is in two or three places 
rather more servile than such a genius as his required ?—e. g, 

“To soothe the maddening passions all to peace.” 

Address. 

“To soothe the throbbing passions into peace.” 

Thomson. 

I think the “Address” is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of 
versification, fully equal to the “ Seasons.” Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself : you meet with no copied description. 
One particular criticism I made at first reading : in no one instance 
has he said too much. He never fiags in his progress, but, like a true 
poet of Nature’s making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple 
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion ; only I do not 
altogether like— 

-“ Truth, 

The soul of every song that’s nobly great.” 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am 
wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase in line 7, 
page 6, “ Great lake,” too much vulgarized by every-day language for so 
sublime a poem ? 

“ Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,” 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with other 
lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader’s ideas must sweep 
the 

“ Winding margin of a hundred miles.” 

The perspective that follows, mountains blue—the imprisoned billows 
beating in vain—the wooded isles—the digression on the yew-tree— 
“ Ben Lomon-d’s lofty, cloud-enveloped head,” etc., are beautiful. A 
thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet our poet in 
his grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, 
entirely original:— 

-“ The gloom 

Deep seam’d with frequent streaks of moving fire.” 

In his preface to the storm, “the glens how dark between,” is noble 
Highland landscape I The “ rain ploughing the red mould,” too, is 
beautifully fancied. “ Ben Lomond’s lofty, pathless top,” is a good ex¬ 
pression ; and the surrounding view from it is truly great; the 

-“ silver mist, 

Beneath the beaming sun,’* 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


523 


is well described ; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with 
a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
Muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon 
the whole, but the swain’s wish to carry “ some faint idea of the vision 
bright,” to entertain her “ partial listening ear,” is a pretty thought. 
But in my opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are 
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond’s “ hospitable 
flood,” their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, etc., and 
the glorious description of the sportsman. This last is equal to any¬ 
thing in the “ Seasons.” The idea of “ the floating tribes distant seen, 
far glistering to the moon,” provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave 
them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. “ The howling winds,” the “ hid¬ 
eous roar ” of “ the white cascades,” are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth 
of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense, I must, how¬ 
ever, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the 
most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragraph beginning “ The gleaming lake,” etc. I dare 
not go into the particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they 
are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl; I had no idea of it 
when I began. I should like tp know who the author is : but whoever 
he be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertain¬ 
ment he has afforded me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books— 
” Letters on the Religion Essential to Man,” a book you sent me before ; 
and ‘‘The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the Greatest Cheat.” 
Send me them by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant. I only wish it had been in two volumes.—R. B. 

No. CLX. 

TO THE EDITOR OP THE “ STAR.” 

[The following protest was called forth as much by the “ dour ” Cal¬ 
vinism as by the violent Whiggism of a thanksgiving sermon preached 
by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, in accordance with an order 
of the General Assembly, in memory “of that glorious event, the 
Revolution.”] 

November 8, 1788. 

Sir, 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of 
our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature—the 
principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have 

18—Bums—W 



524 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


given us—still, the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed 
or insolence to the fallen are held by all mankind shows that they are 
not natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our 
kind who is undone—the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes 
who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? 
We forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join 
in grateful acknowledgment to the Author of all good for the conse¬ 
quent blessings of the glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event 
we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are like¬ 
wise indebted for the present royal family, the ruling features of whose 
administration have ever been mildness to the subject and tenderness 
of his rights. 

Bred and educated in Revolution principles, the principles of reason 
and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the rev¬ 
erend gentleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I am 
afraid, was too much the language of the day. We may rejoice suffi¬ 
ciently in our deliverance from past evils without cruelly raking up the 
ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, 
to be the authors of those evils ; and we may bless God for all His good¬ 
ness to us as a nation, without at the same time cursing a few ruined, 
powerless exiles, who only harbored i^eas and made attempts that 
most of us would have done had we been in their situation. 

“ The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart” may be said with pro¬ 
priety and justice, when compared with the present royal family and 
the sentiments of our day; but is there no allowance to be made for 
the manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the 
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects’ rights ? Might not the epithets 
of “bloody and tyrannical” be, with at least equal justice, applied to 
the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors. 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this At that period 
the science of government, the knowledge of the true relation between 
king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in 
its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their 
predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy¬ 
ing ; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness o^ a nation 
and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people—the consequence of that 
light of science which had lately dawned over Europe—the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his 
people: with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


525 


pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was 
owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the justliiig of parties 
I cannot pretend to determine ; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly 
power was shifted into another branch of the family, who as they owed 
the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing incon¬ 
sistent with the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly and 
impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, I 
bless God, but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who does not 
know that the abilities or defects of leaders and commanders are often 
hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency, and that there is a 
caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and con¬ 
junctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes or brand us as 
madmen, just as they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being ; who would 
believe. Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and refinement, 
while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights and liberties, 
and animated with such indignation against the very memory of those 
who would have subverted them, that a certain people under our na¬ 
tional protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few 
favorite advisers, but against our whole legislative body, for similar 
oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did 
of the House of Stuart ? I will not, I cannot, enter into the merits of 
the case ; but I dare say the American Congress in 1776 will be allowed 
to be as able and as enlightened as the English Convention was in 1688, 
and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance 
from us as duly and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive meas¬ 
ures of the wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude. Sir : let every man who has a tear for the many miseries 
incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and 
unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let every Briton (and par¬ 
ticularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on the 
dotage of a parent cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his 
forefathers.—R. B. 

No. CLXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

Mauchune, \^th November^ 1788 . 

Madam, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men 
are said to fiatter women because they are weak : if it be so, poets must 
be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M‘K. with their flat- 



526 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


tering attentions and artful compliments absolutely turned my head. 

I own that they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron ; 
but they so intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and delicate 
inuendoes of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection 
how much additional weight and luster your good opinion and friend¬ 
ship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a 
person of no small consequence. I dare not say one word how much I 
was charmed with the Major’s friendly, welcome, elegant manner, and 
acute remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of 
applause over against the finest quey ^ in Ayrshire, which he made me 
a present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on Hallow- 
day, I am determined annually, as that day returns, to decorate her 
horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first 
conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, 
under the guarantee of the Major’s hospitality. There will soon be three¬ 
score and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the 
heart-strings of my enjoyment of life, 1 must indulge myself in ahaypy 
day of “ the feast of reason and the flow of soul.”—R. B. 

No. CLXII. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline, November 15, i788. 

Reverend and dear Sir, 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are or were out 
of town, I do not know where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matri¬ 
mony, in June ; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, 
it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a state of health and 
spirits to take notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson since I had the pleasure of 
seeing you ; and I have finished one piece in the way of Pope’s “ Moral 
Epistles : ” but from your silence I have everything to fear ; so I have 
only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should 
too well suit the tone of your present feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till then, my 
direction is at this place ; after that period it will be at Ellisland, near 
Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me were it but half a line, to 
let me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to 


’ A young heifer. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


527 


the fate of a man to whom I owe so much—a man whom I not only 
esteem, but venerate? 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Blacklock and Miss Johnson, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased 
with the step I took respecting “ my Jean.” Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as apophthegms in life—A wife’s head is 
immaterial compared with her heart; and, “ Virtue’s (for wisdom, what 
poet pretends to it ?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths 
are peace.” Adieu I—R. B. 


No. CLXIir. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

ENGRAVER. 

Mauchline, November 15, 1788. 

My dear Sir, 

I have sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, or 
anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very probably have 
four volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in 
this business ; but you are a patriot for the music of your country, and 
I am certain posterity will look on themselves as highly indebted to 
your public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your 
name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every 
day new musical publications advertised ; but what are they ? Gaudy, 
painted butterflies of a day, and then vanish forever; but your work 
will outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth 
of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of 
amorous devotion ? Let me know a few of their qualities, such as 
whether she be rather black or fair, plump or thin, short or tall, etc., 
and choose your air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate her.—R. B. 

No. CLXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \Wi December, 1788. 

My dear honored Friend, 

Yours dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very 
unhappy. “Almost blind and wholly deaf” are melancholy news of 
human nature; but when told of a much-loved and honored friend 




528 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part and gratitude 
on mine began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself among the 
dearest chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late 
and present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalculate mat¬ 
ters widely when you forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my 
worldly concerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. 
But, be that as it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet 
are the two grand considerations for which I live : if miry ridges and 
dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul 
immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I 
should not have been plagued with any idea superior to breaking of 
clods and picking up grubs ; not to mention barn-door cocks or mal¬ 
lards—creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. 
If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well again as to be able to rel¬ 
ish conversation, look you to it. Madam, for I will make my threaten¬ 
ing good. I am to be at the New Year Day fair of Ayr, and by all that 
is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. 

Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow 
and friend was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world I 
they spoil these “ social offsprings of the heart.” Two veterans of the 
“ men of the world ” would have met with little more heart-workings 
than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch 
phrase, “ auld lang syne,” exceedingly expressive ? There is an old 
song and tune which has often thrilled througii my soul. You know I 
am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on 
the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage.—R. B. 

No. CLXV. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

December^ 1788. 

Madam, 

I understand my very worthy neighbor, Mr. Riddel, has informed 
you that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something 
so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad, that I do not 
think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness, 
could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was: so my 
worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never in¬ 
tended, and reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your 
curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the un¬ 
finished production of a random moment, and never meant to have met 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


529 


your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had 
some genius, much eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with 
his pencil. In the accidental group of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character in more than ordinary 
degree congenial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, 
merely, he said, as a nota bene, to point out the agreeable recollection 
to his memory. What this gentleman’s pencil was to him, my muse is 
to me ; and the verses I do myself the honor to send you are a memento 
exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the 
delicacy of my taste, but I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with 
the insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet 
with a person “ after my own heart,” I positively feel what an ortho¬ 
dox Protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy 
like inspiration ; and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than 
an .i^^olian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or 
two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy 
were gray-bearded age ; but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment are equally 
striking and unaffected—by heavens ! though I had lived threescore 
years a married man, and threescore years before I was a married man, 
my imagination would hallow the very idea ; and I am truly sorry that 
the enclosed stanzas have done such poor justice to such a subject. 

R. B. 


No. CLXVI. 

TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 

December 22, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure 
you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong, or six, 
ordinary, toddy. The whisky of this country is a most rascally liquor ; 
and, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the inhabi¬ 
tants. 1 am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might do a 
great deal of business in the way of consumpt; and should you com¬ 
mence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant 
if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worth your while 
to extend your business so far as this country side. I write you this on 
the account ct an accident, which I must take the merit of having 
partly designed to A neighbor of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse- 
mill—a man who is, in a word, a “ very” good man, even for a £500 
bargain—he and his wife were in my house, the time I broke open the 
cask They keep a country public-house, and sell a great deal of foreign 
spirits, but all along thought that whisky would have degraded their 



530 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


house. They were perfectly astonished at my whisky, both for its 
taste and strength ; and, by their desire, I write you to know if you 
could supply them with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. 
Please write me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dum¬ 
fries. If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, 
knife and fork, very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs. 
Tennant and all the good folks in Glenconner and Barquharry.—R. B. 


No. CLXVII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

Ellisland [December ], 1788. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of 
your last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very 
soon ; and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall 
discuss matters vivci voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely 
well; and an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well 
remember the circumstance you allude to respecting Creech’s opinion 
of Mr. Nicol; but as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, 
I dare not meddle in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the conse¬ 
quence of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-com¬ 
missioned scoundrel, A-. If, notwithstanding, your unprecedented 

industry in public and your irreproachable conduct in private life, he 
still has you so much in his power, what ruin may he not bring on some 
others I could name? 

Many and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and 
worthiest friend, and the lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life 
delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both which you 
so ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve 1 
Glance over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu I 
—R. B. 


No. CLXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the Apostle James’s description !—“ the prayer of a right¬ 
eous man availeth much.” In that case. Madam, you should welcome 
in a year full of blessings : everything that obstructs or disturbs tran¬ 
quillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


531 


frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a 
Presbyterian, that I approve set times and seasons of more than ordinary 
acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and 
thought which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or 
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to 
mere machinery. 

This day—the first Sunday of May—a breezy, blue-skied noon some 
time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day 
about the end, of autumn—these, time out of mind, have been with me 
a kind of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, “The 
Vision of Mirza,” a piece that struck my young fancy before I was ca¬ 
pable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : “ On the 5th day of 
the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, 1 always 
keep holy, after having washed myself and offered up my morning de¬ 
votions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of 
the day in meditation and prayer.” 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure 
of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them that 
one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, 
which on minds of a different cast makes no extraordinary impression. 
I have some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain- 
daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, 
and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hangover with particular de¬ 
light. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer 
noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of gray plovers in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthu¬ 
siasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this 
be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the AEolian harp, 
passive takes the impression of the v)assing accident ? Or do these 
workings argue something within us above the trodden clod ? I own 
myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities—a 
God that made all things—man’s immaterial and immortal nature— 
and a world of weal or wo beyond death and the grave 1—R. B. 

No. CLXIX. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

. Ellisland, itli January, 1789. 

Sir, 

As often as I think of writing to you, which has been three or 
four times every week these six months, it gives me something so like 
the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a conversation with the 



532 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Rhodian Colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always 
miscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last got 
some business with you, and business letters are written by the style- 
book. I say my business is with you. Sir ; for you never had any with 
me, except the business that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and emploj^ment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, 
but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late eclat 
was owing to the singularity of my situation and the honest prejudice 
of Scotsmen ; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do 
look upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn the 
Muses’ trade, is a gift bestowed by Him “ who forms the secret bias of 
the soul; ” but 1 as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is 
the fruit of industry, labor, attention, and pains—at least I am resolved 
to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance 
from the press I put off to a very distant day—a day that may never 
arrive; but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigor. 
Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession the talents of shin¬ 
ing in every species of composition. 1 shall try (for until trial it is im¬ 
possible to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any one. 
The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has been so 
often viewed and reviewed before the mental e 5 '^e, that one loses in a 
good measure the powers of critical discrimination. Here the best 
criterion I know is a friend, not only of abilities to judge, but with 
good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned 
animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic diseases—heart-break¬ 
ing despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted 
to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of your being that 
friend to me ? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk of poesy to me 
entirely new ; I mean the Epistle addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert 
Graham of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I 
lie under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like most of 
my poems, is connected with my own story ; and to give you the 
one I must give you something of the other. 1 cannot boast of Mr. 
Creech’s ingenuous fair-dealing to me. He kept me hanging about 
Edinburgh from the 7th August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before 
he would condescend to give me a statement of affairs ; nor had I got 
it even then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his 
pride. “ I could ” not “ a tale,” but a detail, “ unfold • ” but what am 
I that should speak against the Lord’s anointed Bailie of Edinburgh. 

I believe I shall in whole, £100 copyright included, clear about £400 
some little odds; and even part of this depends upon what tne gentle- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


533 


man has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because 
you did me the honor to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give 
you this information, but I give it to yourself only ; for I am still much 
in the gentleman’s mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am 
sometimes tempted to have of him : God forbid I should! A little 
time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the business, 
if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief • 1 have married “my Jean,” 
and taken a farm. With the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied,, with the last it is rather the reverse. I have a 
younger brother, who supports my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edin¬ 
burgh it cost me about £180 to save them from ruin. Not that I have 
lost so much : 1 only interposed between my brother and his impending 
fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was 
mere selfishness on my part; I was conscious that the wrong scale of 
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that throwing 
a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favor 
might help to smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There is still 
one thing would make my circumstances quite easy ; I have an Excise- 
officer’s commission, and I live in the midst of a country division. My 
request to Mr. Graham^ who is one of the commissioners of Excise, 
was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If I were very san¬ 
guine, I might hope that some of my great patrons might procure me 
a treasury-warrant for supervisor, surveyor-general, etc. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, “ to thee, sweet Poetry, delightful maid,” 
I would consecrate my future days.—R. B, 

No. CLXX. 

tO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, January 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir. May you be 
comparatively happy, up to your comparative worth, among the sons 
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest 
of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a “ writer to the Signet” be a trial of scien¬ 
tific merit or a mere business of friends and interest. However it be, 
let me quote you my two favorite passages, which, though I have re¬ 
peated them ten thousand times, still they rouse my manhood and steel 
my resolution like inspiration. 

-On Reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man.—FouWflf. 




534 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Hear, Alfred, hero of the state. 

Thy Genius Heaven’s high will declare ; 

The triumph of the truly great, 

Is never, never to despair I 

Is never to despair Masque of Alfred. 

I grant you enter the lists of life to struggle for bread, business, 
notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. But who are they? 
Men like yourself, and of that aggregate body your compeers, seven- 
tenths of them come short of your advantages, natural and accidental; 
while two of those that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers 
blooming in a desert, or misspend their strength, like a bull goring a 
bramble bush. 

But to change the theme : I am still catering for Johnson’s publica¬ 
tion ; and among others I have brushed up the following old favorite 
song a little, with a view to your woi*ship. I have only altered a word 
here and there; but if you like the humor of it, we shall think of a 
stanza or two to add to it.—R. B. 

No. CLXXI. 

TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

[Of the “Poet’s Progress” Burns composed several detached pieces, 
but none have been preserved except a dozen satirical lines, supposed 
to refer to Creech. Dr. Gregory’s “ iron criticism ” related to the 
“ Wounded Hare.”j 

Ellisland, 20th Jan., 1787. 

Sir, 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a few days after 
I had the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for 
the Continent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those 
for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed 
to R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of Fintry, accom¬ 
panying a request for his assistance in a matter, to me, of very great 
moment. To that gentleman I am already doubly indebted for deeds 
of kindness of serious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species 
of composition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay 
of the kind, as you will see by the “ Poet’s Progress.” These fragments, 
if my design succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I 
propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years: 
of course I do not wish it much known. The fragment beginning “ A 
little upright, pert, tart, etc.,” I have not shown to man living, till I 
now send it you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


535 




a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of 
lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand 
at portrait-sketching ; but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to point 
out the original, please to let it be for your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has 
treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness—who 
has entered into my interests with so much zeal, and on whose critical 
decisions I can so fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these deci¬ 
sions are to me of the last consequence. My late transient acquaint¬ 
ance among some of the mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with 
ease; but to the distinguished champions of genius and learning, I 
shall be ever ambitious of being known. The native genius and accu¬ 
rate discernment in Mr. Stewart’s critical strictures, the justness (iron 
justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of 
Dr. Gregory’s remarks, and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel’s taste, I 
shall ever revere. 

1 shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. 

1 have the honor to be, Sir, 

Your highly obliged and very humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CLXXII. 


TO BISHOP GEDDES. 


[Bishop John Geddes was born at Enzie, Banffshire, in 1735. He was 
educated at the Scotch Roman Catholic College at Rome, ordained 
priest in 1759, had charge of a college in Madrid for several years, and 
was consecrated bishop in 1780. In 1781 he returned to Scotland, and 
resided chiefly at Edinburgh, but died in Aberdeen in 1799. He had 
met the poet at Lord Monboddo’s. Bishop Geddes is often confounded 
with another Roman Catholic ecclesiastic and native of Enzie, Dr, 
Alexander Geddes, an eccentric but learned man, who published a 
translation of the Scriptures and various miscellaneous works, and 
who was author of the humorous Scotch song 

“ There was a wee bit wifiekie ’* 


It does not appear that Burns ever met Dr. A, Geddes. The book to 
which he refers was a copy of the Edinburgh edition of bis own poems, 
to which he had made manuscript additions. The volume is now in 
the possession of Mr. James Black, Detroit, America ] 


Ellisland, February M, 1789. 


Venerable Father, 

As 1 am conscious that, wherever I am, you do me tne honor to 
interest yourself in my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, 



536 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




that I am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and 
have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to 
attend to those great and important questions—what I am ? where I 
am ? and for what I am destined. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one 
side on which I was habitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature’s God. I was 
sensible that to so helpless a creature as a poor poet a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; 
but when the alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, 
on account of habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no 
general example, no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to 
me, ever justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a mad¬ 
man to have made another choice. Besides, I had in “my Jean” a 
long and much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery among my 
hands, and who could trifie with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure ; I have 
good hopes of my farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise com¬ 
mission, which, on my simple petition, will at any time procure me 
bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise 
officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honor from my profession ; and 
though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that 
the first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, 
my reverend and much-honored friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. 1 am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the 
Muses. I am determined to study man and nature, and in that view 
incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can 
enable me to produce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so 
long, that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
large poetic plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly put in 
execution, I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meeting 
with you ; which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the 
beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honor 
me, you must still allow me to challenge; for with whatever uncon¬ 
cern I give up my transient connection with the merely great, I cannot 
lose the patronizing notice of the learned and good without the bitter* 
est regret. 


R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


53; 


No. CLXXIII. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNES. 

Ellisland, ^th February, 1789. 

My dear Sir, 

Why I did not write to you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
could not answer. If you can in your mind form an idea of indolence, 
dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on untried scenes 
of life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. 
It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem 
before I knew him—an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other 
indictment with which you shall please to charge me. 

After I parted from you, for many months my life was one continued 
scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and—a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs 
by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. I have gotten a lease of 
my farm as long as I please ; but how it may turn out is just a guess, 
and it is yet to improve and enclose, etc. ; however, 1 have good hopes 
of my bargain on the whole. 

My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I 
found I had a much-loved fellow-creature’s happiness or misery among 
my hands, and 1 durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed I 
have not any reason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached 
myself to a very good wife, and have shaken myself loose of every bad 
failing. 

1 have found my book a very profitable business, and with the profits 
of it I have begun life pretty decently. Should Fortune not favor me 
in farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have pro¬ 
vided myself in another resource, which, however some folks may 
affect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. 
In the heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay 
you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, one of the Commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission 
of an excise officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; and 
accordingly I took my instructions, and have my commission by me. 
Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what I 
do not know ; but I have the comfortable assurance that, come what¬ 
ever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the excise-board, get 
into employ. 




538 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very 
w’eak, and with a very little alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to 
be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes 
to me, 1 expect, in summer. They are both remarkably stout young 
fellows, and promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been 
with me ever since her father’s death, and I propose keeping her in my 
family till she be quite woman grown, and fit her for better service. 
She is one of the cleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable dis¬ 
positions, I have ever seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to 
all friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. 
and family. 

I am ever^ my dear Cousin, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 


No. CLXXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[The two following letters relate to some poems by Mr. Mylne, who 
hiad recently died, which had been sent to Burns for his judgment by 
the Rev. Mr. Carfrae, at the suggestion of Mrs. Dunlop.] 

Ellisland, Uli March, 1789. 

Here am I, my honored friend, returned safe from the capital. To 
a man who has a home, ho'wever humble or remote—if that home is 
like mine, the scene of domestic comfort—the bustle of Edinburgh 
will soon be a business of sickening disgust. 

“Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you I ” 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some 
gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to 
exclaim, “ What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in 
some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being 
with the scepter of rule and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am 
kicked into the world the sport of folly, or the victim of pride?” I 
have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was), who was 
so out of humor with thePtolemean system of astronomy, that he said, 
had he been of the Creator’s council, he could have saved Him a great 
deal of labor and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; 
but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of 
Princes Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


539 


present human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of 
his consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of 
his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a 
perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious 
saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb sinews 
of many of his Majesty’s liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the 
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point 
of respectful distance, which the important creature itself requires ; as 
a measuring-glance at its towering altitude would determine the affair 
like instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne’s poem, which he 
has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault—it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has en¬ 
couraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish 
poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall 
advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend’s English pieces. 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have 
requested a perusal of all Mylne’s poetic performances, and would have 
offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting what 
would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, 
and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph 
in some future letter. In the mean time allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine ... I give you them, that, 
as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or two 
alterations I have ventured to make in them be any real improvement. 

“ Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 

Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause ; 

Be all a mother’s fondest hope can dream, 

And all you are, my charming . . . seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 

Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 

Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 

Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 

Your manners shall so true your soul express, 

That all shall long to know the worth they guess; 

Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 

And even sick’ning envy must approve.” 

R. B. 


* These lines are supposed to have been written by Mrs. Dunlop herself. 




540 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CLXXV. 

TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

1789. 

Rev. Sir, 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a severer pang of shame, 
than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne’s poem. 

I am much to blame : the honor Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly 
enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy, circum¬ 
stance of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better 
return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to some 
periodical publication : but on second thoughts, I am afraid that in the 
present case it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as 
much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of nonsense 
under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish 
poems have so dunned, and daily do dun, the public, that the very name 
is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr. 
Mylne’s poems in a magazine, etc., be at all prudent, in my opinion it 
certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labors of a 
man of genius are, I hope, as honorable as any profits whatever, and 
Mr. Mylne’s relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, 
which fate has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. 
Mylne’s fame (among whom I crave the honor of ranking myself) always 
keep in eye his respectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure, that, before the w’orld knows anything about him, would risk 
his name and character being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing ; and the way in which I 
would proceed with Mr. Mylne’s poems is this I will publish in two or 
three English and Scottish public papers any one of his English poems 
which should, by private judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it in idea to publish, soon, by subscription, for the sake of 
his numerous family not in pity to that family, but in justice to what 
his friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure in the 
most effectual manner, to those tender connections, whose right it is, 
the pecuniary reward of those merits.—R. B. ’ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


541 


No. CLXXVI. 


Madam, 


TO CLARINDA. 


^th March, 1789. 


The letter you wrote me to Heron’s carried its own answer in its 
bosom ; you forbade me to write you, unless 1 was willing to plead 
guilty to a certain indictment that you were pleased to bring against 
me. As 1 am convinced of my own innocence, and though conscious 
of high imprudence and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast 
and attest the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me, Madam, if I 
do not carry my complaisance so far as humbly to acquiesce in the name 
of villain, merely out of compliment to your opinion, much as 1 esteem 
your judgment, and warmly as I regard your worth. 

1 have already told you, and I again aver it, that at the period of time 
alluded to I was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns ; nor 
did I, nor could 1, then know all the powerful circumstances that omni¬ 
potent necessity was busy laying in wait for me. When you call over 
the scenes that have passed between us, you will survey the conduct 
of an honest man, struggling successfully with temptations the most 
powerful that ever beset humanity, and preserving untainted honor in 
situations where the austerest virtue would have forgiven a fall; situa¬ 
tions that, 1 will dare to say, not a single individual of all his kind, 
even with half his sensibility and passion, could have encountered 
without ruin ; and I leave you to guess. Madam, how such a man is 
likely to digest an accusation of perfidious treachery. 

Was 1 to blame, Madam, in being the distracted victim of charms 
which, I aflSrm it, no man ever approached with impunity? Had I 
seen the least glimmering of hope that these charms could ever have 
been mine, or even had not iron necessity—but these are unavailing 
words. 

I would have called on you when 1 was in town—indeed, I could not 
have resisted it—but that Mr. Ainslietold me that you were determined 
to avoid your windows while I was in town, lest even a glance of me 
should occur in the street. 

When 1 have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may venture to 
solicit your friendship ;but, be that as it may, the first of her sex lever 
knew shall always be the object of my warmest good wishes.—R. B. 




542 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CLXXVII. 

TO DR. MOORE, 

Ellisland, 23d March, 1789. 

Sir, 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr. Nielson, a 
worthy clergyman in my neighborhood, and a very particular acquaint¬ 
ance of mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn 
him over to your goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in wdiich 
he much needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve 
him. Mr. Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of 
Queensberry, on some little business of a good deal of importance to 
him, and he wishes for your instructions respecting the most eligible 
mode of travelling, etc., for him, when he has crossed the Channel. I 
should not have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I am told, 
by those who have the honor of your personal acquaintance, that to be 
a poor honest Scotchman is a letter of recommendation to you, and 
that to have it in your power to serve such a character gives you much 
pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. 
Oswald of Auchencruive. You, probably, knew her personally, an honor 
of which I cannot boast; but I spent my early years in her neighborhood, 
among her servants and tenants. 1 know that she was detested with 
the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her 
conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. 
In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, 1 had put up at Bailie Whig- 
ham’s, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was 
keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night 
of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the 
labors of the day ; and just as my friend the Bailie and 1 were bidding 
defiance to the storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral 
pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave 
all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young 
favorite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, 
the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when I 
would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at 
New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; and I 
must own that at last he has been amicable and fair with me.—R. B. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


543 


No. CLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HILL. - 

[The “ library scheme” here referred to is nowadays a common in¬ 
stitution in almost every village : but is worth note that Burns appre¬ 
ciated the movement, and interested himself actively in it, at its first 
beginnings.] 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus. (God forgive me for 
murdering language !) that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 

It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence ; so I beg you 
will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are 
going to borrow, apply to . . . .to compose, or rather to compound, 
something very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one 
of my most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was 
originally intended for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to 
take dirty notes in a miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings!—thou cook of 
fat beef and dainty greens !—thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose and comfortable surtouts!—thou old housewife, darning thy 
decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose !—lead 
me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and 
through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible and impervious to my 
anxious, weary feet : not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, 
where the hungry worshipers of fame are, breathless, clambering, 
hanging between heaven and hell, but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, 
where the all-sufficient, all-powerful deity. Wealth, holds his imme¬ 
diate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of plenty 
and the hot walls of profusion produce those blissful fruits of luxury, 
exotics in this world and natives of paradise! Thou withered sibyl, 
my sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence! 
The power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy 
cousin; thy kinsman, or favorite, and adjure the god by the scenes of 
his infant years no longer to repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but 
to favor me with his peculiar countenance and protection ! He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserving and the worthless; 
assure him, that I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of Lucre I will do 
anything, be anything—but the horse-leech of private oppression, or 
the vulture of public robbery I 



544 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


But to descend from heroics. 

I want a Shakespeare ; I want likewise an English dictionary—John¬ 
son’s, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honor 
that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the 
first time you see him, ten shillings’ worth of anything you have to 
sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun, under 
the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith, of Close- 
burn, which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave 
his infant society a great many of his old books, else I had written 
you on that subject,’ but one of these days I shall trouble you with a 
commission for “The Monkland Friendly Society:” a copy of “The 
Spectator,” “Mirror,” and “Lounger,” “ Man of Feeling,” “ Man of 
the World, “Guthrie’s Geographical Grammar,” with some religious 
pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends 
for this sheet. At present every guinea has a fit^ guinea errand with, 

My dear Sir, 

Your faithful, poor, but honest Friend, 

R. B. 


No. CLXXIX. 


TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Uh April , 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to 
you ; and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to you 
that communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or 
rather inscribe, to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox ; but how long 
that fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just 
rough sketched as follows :— 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 

How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction— 

I sing : it these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 

I care not, not I; let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


545 


Thou first of our orators, first of our wits, 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 

No man with the half of ’em e’er went far wrong ; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 

No man with the half of ’em e’er went quite right; 

A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses, &c. 

(For the rest see page 171.) 

On the 20th current I hope to have the honor of assuring you, in person, 
how sincerely I am.—R. B. 


No. CLXXX. 

TO MRS McMURDO. 

DRUMLANRIG. 

Ellisland, 2 d May , 1789. 

Madam, 

I have finished the piece ^ which had the happy fortune to be 
honored with your approbation; and never did little miss with more spark- 
png pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma, than I now 
Bend my poem to you and Mr, McMurdo, if he is returned to Drumlanrig. 
You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals, what sensitive 
plants, poor poets are. How do we shrink into the embittered corner of 
self abasement, when neglected or condemned by those to whom we look 
up ! and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our stature 
cn being noticed and applauded by those whom we honor and respect! My 
late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you. Madam, given me a balloon 
waft up Parnassus, where on my fancied elevation I regard my poetic self 
with no small degree of complacency. Surely, with all their sins, the 
rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures. I recollect your goodness to 
your humble guest, I see Mr. McMurdo adding to the politeness of the 
gentleman the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, 
with warm emotions and ardent wishes! It may be it is not gratitude; it 
may be a mixed sensation. That strange, shifting, double animal man is 
so generally, at best, but a negative, often a worthless, creature, that we 
cannot see real goodness and native worth without feeling the bosom glow 
with sympathetic approbation. 

With every sentiment of grateful respect, 

I have the honor to be. Madam, 

Your obliged and grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 

*“ Bonnie Jean • the heroine of which was the eldest dauj^hter of Mrs. McMurdo, 
and sister to Phillis; their charms give luster to some of the Poet’s happiest lyrics. 



546 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS, 


No. CLXXXL 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellislaito, ^th May, 1789. 

My dear Sir, 

Your duty-free favor of the 26th April I received two days ago. I 
will not say I received it with pleasure; that is the cold compliment of cere¬ 
mony . I perused it, Sir, with delicious satisfaction;—in short, it is such a 
letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by express pro¬ 
viso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul 
of friendship is such an honor to human nature, that they should order it 
free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, as an encourage¬ 
ment and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 

1 have just put the last hand to a little poem, which. I think will be 
something to your taste. One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a 
neighboring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow 
who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young ones. 
Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our sport in¬ 
dividuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially which 1 
could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman man I curse on thy barb’rous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye I 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart 1—etc. {Page 159.) 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would 
not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the Author of man. You, he, 
and the noble Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

“ Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart.” 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all to the tune of “Three guid 
fellows ayont the glenn."—R. B. 


No. CLXXXII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 


My Dear Friend, 


Maucrline, 2l8t May, 1789. 


I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival, I 
could not resist the temptation of wishing you joy on your return, wishing 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


547 


you would write to me before you sail again, wishing you would always 
set me down as your bosom friend, wishing you long life and prosperity, 
and that every good thing may attend you, wishing Mrs. Brown and your 
little ones as free of the evils of this world as is consistent with humanity, 
wishing you and she were to make two at the ensuing lying-in with which 
Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favor me, wishing I had longer time to write 
to you at present, and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state 
of existence, Mr. B., Mrs.B., our little ones, and both families, and you and 
I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial party to all eternity I 

My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 

Yours, R. B. 

No. CLXXXIII. 

TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 

Ellisland, 2Uh May, 1780. 

Deak Sir, 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of sympathy with your mis¬ 
fortunes; but it is a tender string, and I know not how to touch it. It is 
easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments on the subjects that would 
give great satisfaction to—a breast quite at ease. but as one observes who 
was very seldom mistaken in the theory of life, ‘ The heart knoweth its 
own sorrows, and a stranger intermcddleth not therewith.” 

Among some distressful emergen ’es that I have experienced in life, I 
ever laid this down as my foundation of comfort— That he who leas lived the 
life of an honest man has by no means lived in vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare and future success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R. B. 


No. CLXXXIV. 

TO WILLIA*M CREECH, ESQ. 

Ellisland, ZOth May, 1789. 

Sm, 

I had intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present 
the delightful sensations of an omnipotent toothache so engross all my in¬ 
ner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense. However, as 
in duty bound, I approach my bookseller with an offering in my hand—a 
few poetical clinches and a song •—to expect any other kind of offering 
from the rhyming tribe would be to know them much less than you do I 

18—Burns—X 



548 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


do not pretend that there is much merit in these morceaux; but 1 have two 
reasons for sending them ; primo, they are mostly ill-natured, so are in 
unison with my present feelings, while fifty troops of infernal spirits are 
driving post from ear to ear along my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they are so 
short, that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so hurt my pride in the 
idea that you found any work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure 
you, by all your wishes and by all your hopes that the Muse will spare the 
satiric wink in the moment of your foibles ; that she will warble the song 
of rapture round your hymeneal couch; and that she will shed on your 
turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude! Grant my request as speedily as 
possible: send me by the very first fly or coach for this place three copies 
of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, come 
among thy hands, until they be filled with the good things of this life, pray* 
eth R. B. 


No. CLXXXV- 
TO MR. JOHN McAULAY. 

TOWN CLERK OF DUMBARTON. 

Ellisland, Wi June, 1789. 

Dear Sir, 

Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that grand, 
universal inquest of right and wrong commonly called The Last Day, yet 
I trust there is one sin which that arch-vagabond Satan, who I understand 
is to be king’s evidence, cannot throw in my teeth—I mean ingratitude. 
There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for which I remain, 
and from inability, I fear must still remain, your debtor; but though un¬ 
able to repay the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly remember the 
obligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaint¬ 
ance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan’s language, “Hale, 
and weel, and living; ” and that your charming family are well, and promis¬ 
ing to be an amiable and respectable addition to the company of performers 
whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing into action for 
the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and 
effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my 
plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy, and 
at times sauntering by the delightful windings of the Nith, on the margin 
of which I have built my humble domicile ; praying for seasonable wea¬ 
ther, or holding an intrigue with the Muses—the only gypsies with whom I 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


549 


have now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matri¬ 
mony, I trust my face is turned completely Zionward: and as it is a rule 
with all honest fellows to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic 
licences of former days will of course fall under the oblivious influence of 
some good-natured statute of celestial prescription. In my family devo¬ 
tion, which, like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to my household 
folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, “ Let not the errors of my youth,” 
etc., and that other, “Lo, children are God’s heritage,” etc., in which last 
Mrs. Burns, who, by the by, has a glorious “wood-note wild” at either old 
song or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Handel’s “Messiah.”—R. B. 

No. CLXXXVL 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, 8^^ June, 1789. 

My dear Friend, 

I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your 
last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and the companion of 
my peregrinations; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond suffer¬ 
ance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a collection 
of poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare them for the press; which 
horrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, 
wrights, plasterers, etc., to attend to, roaming on business through Ayr¬ 
shire—all this was against me, and the very first dreadful article was of it¬ 
self too much for me. 

13th.—I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 
8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man’s individual self is a good deal, but, believe me, a wife and 
family of children, whenever you have the honor to be a husband and a 
father, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude 
are spent on trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose 
only support, hope, and stay we are—this, to a generous mind, is another 
sort of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which 
center merely in the individual. On the other hand, let no young, unmar¬ 
ried, rakehelly dog among you make a song of his pretended liberty and 
freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, 
and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysi¬ 
cians; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity, and justice, 
be aught but empty sounds; then the man who may be said to live only for 
others, for the beloved, honorable female, whose tender, faithful embrace 
endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who are to be the men and 
women, the worshipers of his God. the subjects of his king, and the sup- 



550 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


port, uay, the very vital existence, of his country, in the ensuing age;—^ 
compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle 
and push in business among laborers, clerks, statesmen; or whether he roar 
and rant, and drink and sing, in taverns—a fellow over whose grave no one 
will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie of what is called 
good-fellowship—who has no view nor aim but what terminates in himself: 
if there be any groveling earthborn wretch of our species, a renegado to 
common sense, who would fain believe that the noble creature man is no 
better than a sort of fungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, 
and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody knows where; such a stupid beast, 
such a crawling reptile, might balance the foregoing unexaggerated com¬ 
parison, but no one else would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. To make you amends I 
shall send you soon, and, more encouraging still, without any postage, one 
or two rhymes of my later manufacture.—R. B. 


No. CLXXXVII. 

TO MR. [PETER STUART]. 

[Mr. Robert Chambers has discovered that this letter was addressed to 
Mr. Peter Stuart, editor of the Star, and afterwards connected with the 
Morning Post and Chronicle.] 


1789. 

My dear Sir, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season and the indolence of 
a poet at all times and seasons will, I hope, plead my excuse for neglect¬ 
ing so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. . . . 

When I received your letter I was transcribing for . . . my letter to the 
magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission to 
place a tombstone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in consequence of 
my petition; but now I shall send them to . . . Poor Fergusson! If 
there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust there is; and if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is; thou art now 
enjoying existence in a glorious world, where worth of the heart alone is 
distinction in the man; where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-pur¬ 
chasing powers, return to their native sordid matter; where titles and honors 
are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream; and where that heavy virtue, 
which is the negative consequence of steady dulness, and those thought¬ 
less, though often destructive, follies which are the unavoidable aberra¬ 
tions of frail human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion, as if they 
had never been 1 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


551 


Adieu, my dear Sir! So soou as your present views and schemes are 
concentered in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you, as your welfare 
and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to Yours, 


R. B. 


No. CLXXXVIII. 


TO MISS WILLIAMS. 


[Miss Helen Maria Williams, author of “ Some Verses on the Slave Trade, 
and other Poems," was introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore.] 

Ellisland, 1789. 

Madam, 

Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature man, 
this is one of the most extraordinary, that he shall go on from day to day, 
from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to year, 
suffering a hundred times more in an hour from the impotent conscious¬ 
ness of neglecting what he ought to do, than the very doing of it would 
cost him. I am deeply indebted to you, first for the most elegant poetic 
compliment, then for a polite, obliging letter, and lastly, for your excellent 
poem on the Slave Trade; and yet, wretch that I am 1 though the debts 
were debts of honor, and the creditor a lady, I have put off and put off 
even the acknowledgment of the obligation, until you must indeed be the 
very angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way 
whenever I read a book—I mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a 
poetic one—and when it is my own property, that I take a pencil and 
mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, little 
criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts 
that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to 
show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I take to be 
truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear 
them with pleasure. 

I know very little of scientific criticism ; so all I can pretend to do 
in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages 
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression 
seems to be perplexed or faulty. 

The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines 
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th 
and 10th in particular, 

“ Where ocean’s unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round,” 



552 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine ; and 
indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly 
above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. 
Verse 36th, “ That foul drama deep with wrong,” is nobly expressive. 
Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest: “ to dare to feel ” 
is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valor and 
mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused 
in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 
57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connection seems ungrammatical:— 

“ Powers. .. 

With no gradations mark’d their flight, 

But rose at once to glory’s height.” 

“ Ris’n ” should be the word instead of “ rose.” Try it in prose. Powers,— 
their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers] risen at 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, For this ” is evidently 
meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 61st, and 62d ; but 
let us try how the thread of connection runs 

” For this. 

The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 

Shall virtue’s lips record, and claim 
The fairest honors of thy name.” 

I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, but this appears to me the 
only imperfect pas.sage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam 
is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is 
certainly elegant. The thought 

“ Virtue. 

Sends from her unsullied source 

The gems of thought their purest force,” 

is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that the 
“ blest decree ” is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day 
of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th 
to verse 108th is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness 
of the oppressor, on the one hand, and the misery of the captive, on the 
other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus : “ Nor ever quit 
her narrow maze.” We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. 
Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful :— 

” They, whom wasted blessings tire.” 

Verse 110th is, I doubt, a clashing of metaphors ; “to load a span ” is, I 
am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, “Cast the 
imiverse in shade” is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


553 


is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, 
“ The load of unremitted pain,” is a remarkable, strong expression. The 
address to the advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 143d 
to verse 208th, is animated with the true life of genius. The picture 
of Oppression,— 

While she links her impious chain, 

And calculates the price of pain ; 

Weighs agony in sordid scales, 

And marks if death or life prevails,”— 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse 180th ! Indeed, that whole description 
of home may vie with Thomson’s description of home, somewhere in the 
beginning of his “ Autumn. ” I do not remember to have seen a stronger 
expression of misery than is contained in these verses :— 

” Condemned, severe extreme, to live 
When all is fled that life can give.” 

The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original 
and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a 
well done, though a horrid picture. I am not sure how far introducing 
the sailor w^as right ; for though the sailor’s common characteristic is 
generosity, yet in this case he is certainly not only an unconcerned 
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business. Verse 
224th is a nervous . . . expressive—The heart convulsive anguish 
breaks.” The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the 
West Indies is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the 
oppressor’s sorrow on seeing the slave pine is like the butcher’s regret 
when his destined lamb dies a natural death is exceedingly fine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid 
lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and instead of elucidating my 
author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not pretend 
to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful lines, 
however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest description 
of selfishness 1 ever saw. The comparison in verses 285th and 286th is 
new and fine; and the line, “ Your arms to penury you lend,” is 
excellent. 

In verse 317th, “like” should certainly be “as” or “so;” for in¬ 
stance— 

* His sway the hardened bosom leads 
To cruelty’s remorseless deeds ; 

As (or so) the blue lightning, when it springs 
With fury on its livid wings. 

Darts on the goal with rapid force. 

Nor heeds that ruin marks its course.” 



554 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


If you insert the word “ like where I have placed “as,” you must 
alter “ darts ” to “ darting,” and “ heeds ” to “ heeding,” in order to 
make it grammar. A tempest is a favorite subject with the poets, 
but I do not remember anything even in Thomson’s “ Winter’’superior 
to your verses from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed the last simile, be¬ 
ginning with “Fancy may dress,” etc., and ending with the 350th 
verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem ; it 
would do honor to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon. Madam, for these strictures, as my con¬ 
science tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties 
of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by.—R. B. 

No. CLXXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 21s^ June, 1789. 

Dear Madam, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions, of low 
spirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring ? I know not of any 
particular cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me ; but for 
some time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere 
of evil imaginations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man 
famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; but from such ideas of 
my Creator, good Lord, deliver me ! Religion, my honored friend, is 
surely a simple business, as it equally concerns the ignorant and the 
learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
Great Being, to whom I owe my existence ; and that he must be in¬ 
timately acquainted with the operations and progress of the internal 
machinery, and consequent outward deportment, of this creature 
which He has made; these are, I think, self-evident propositions. 
That there is a real and eternal distinction between virtue and vice, 
and, consequently, that I am an accountable creature; that from the 
seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident imper¬ 
fection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both in 
the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of ex¬ 
istence beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by every one who 
will give himself a moment’s reflection. I will go farther, and aiiirm, 
that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of His doctrine and 
precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of 
many preceding ages, though, to appearance, He Himself was the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


555 


obscurest and most illiterate of our species—therefore Jesus Christ was 
from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness, of others, 
this is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you, Madam, of my creed ? 1 trust that I have said 
nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one whose good opinion I value 
almost next to the approbation of my own mind.—R. B. 

No. CXC. 

TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

My Lady, 

Thehonor you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very 
obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have 
given him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless gloom 
and sinking despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. 
As to forgetting the family of Glen cairn, Heaven is my witness wuth 
what sincerity I could use those old verses, which please me more in 
their rude simplicity than the most elegant lines 1 ever saw :— 

“ If thee, Jerusalem, I forget. 

Skill part from my right hand 

My tongue to my mouth’s roof let cleave, 

If I do thee forget, 

Jerusalem, and thee above 
My chief joy do not set.” 

When I am tempted to do anything improper, I dare not, because I 
look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. Now and 
then, when I have the honor to be called to the tables of the great, if 
I happen to meet with any mortification from the stately stupidity of 
self-sufificient squires or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I 
get above the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patron¬ 
ized by the noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times such as New- 
year’s day, a christening, or the Kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is 
brought from its dusty corner and filled up in honor of the occasion, I 
begin with, “ The Countess of Glencairn ! ” My good woman, with 
the enthusiasm of a grateful heart next cries, “ My Lord ! ” and so 
the toast goes on until I end with “ Lady Harriet’s little angel ! ” 
whose epithalamium I have pledged myself to write. 

When I received your ladyship’s letter, 1 was just in the act of tran¬ 
scribing for you some verses I have lately composed ; and meant to 
have sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my 




556 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


late change of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my 
farm. Those fears were indeed too true: it is a bargain that would 
have ruined m6 but for the lucky circumstance of my having an ex¬ 
cise commission. 

People may talk as they please of the ignominy of the excise ; SOL 
a year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of 
the world ; and I would much rather have it said that my profession 
borrowed credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my pro¬ 
fession. Another advantage I have in this business is the knowledge 
it gives me of the various shades of human character, consequently 
assisting me vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent 
enthusiasm for the Muses when nobody knew me but myself, and that 
ardor is by no means cooled now that my Lord Glencairn’s goodness 
has introduced me to all the world. Not that I am in haste for the 
press. I have no idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted my 
noble, generous patron ; but after acting the part of an honest man, 
and supporting my family, my whole wishes and views are directed to 
poetic pursuits. I am aware, that though I were to give performances 
to the world superior to my former works, still, if they were the same 
kind with those, the comparative reception they would meet with 
would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do 
not mean the stately buskin of the tragic Muse. . . . 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theater would be 
more amused with affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, 
than manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only 
know at second-hand ? 

I have the honor to be, 

Your ladyship’s ever devoted 

and grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CXCI. 

TO MR. JOHN LOGAN. 

[OF KNOCKSHINNOCH, GLEN AFTON, AYRSHIRE]. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 7th Aug., 1789. 

Dear Sir, 

I intended to have written you long ere now, and, as I told you, 
I had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poetic epistle to 
you ; but that old enemy of all good works, the devil, threw me into a 
prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not 
write you a long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


557 


long ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished “The Kirk’s 
Alarm ; ” but now that it is done, and that I have laughed once or 
twice at the conceits in some of the stanzas, I am determined not to 
let it get into the public : so 1 send you this copy, the first that 1 have 
sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which 1 wrote off in 
embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request 
that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on any account 
give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could be of 
any service to Dr. M’Gill, I would do it, though it should be at a much 
greater expense than irritating a few bigoted priests ; but 1 am afraid 
serving him in his present emharras is a task too hard for me. I have 
enemies enow, God knows, though 1 do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two or three of the 
thoughts, I send it to you as a small but sincere testimony how much, 
and with what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CXCII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Qth Sept., 1789. 

Dear Madam, 

I have mentioned in my last my appointment to the Excise and 
the birth of little Frank ; who, by the by, I trust will be no discredit 
to the honorable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, 
and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older, 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has 
a pipe only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

1 had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from 
your poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious but modest composition. 
I should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this 
new business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this 
country ; and I am happy to add, always to the honor of her character. 
The fact is, I know not well how to write to her; I should sit down to 
a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine¬ 
drawn letter-writing ; and, except when prompted by friendship or 
gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse 
(I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, 
when necessitated to write, as 1 would sit down to beat hemp. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


558 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the 
most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort! I would sit down to it 
with as much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition that should equal the “ Iliad.” Religion, my dear friend, 
is the true comfort! A strong persuasion in a future state of exist¬ 
ence ; a proposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation 
aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for 
at least near four thousand years, have in some mode or other firmly 
believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have 
myself done so to a very daring pitch ; but, when I reflected that I 
was opposing the most ardent wishes and the most darling hopes of 
good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if 
you have ever seen them ; but it is one of my favorite quotations, 
which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the 
language of the book of Job, 

“ Against the day of battle and of war ” — 
spoken of religion: 

" ’Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright! 

’ Tis this that gilds the horror of our night: 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue, 

’ Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.” 

I have been busy with “Zeluco.” The Doctor is so obliging as to 
request my opinion of it : and I have'been revolving in my mind some 
kind of criticisms on novel-writing; but it is a depth beyond my 
research. I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
as I can. “ Zeluco ” is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell I A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commanded — R. B. 

No. CXCIII. 

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

CAUSE. 

[The “ important day ” was that on which the contest with the famous 
Danish whistle was to take place at Captain Riddel’s—the contest, who 
of the company could drink deepest and longest without losing the 
power of blowing the whistle,] 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


559 


Ellisland, 16^/i Oct., 1789. 

Sir, 

Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, I have 
watched the elements and skies in the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some phenomena of terrific 
portent. Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious 
horror for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial 
armies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled 
heavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions 
of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly : they 
did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed 
of the day. For me, as Thomson in his Winter’^ says of the storm, I 
shall Hear astonished, and astonished sing ” 

The whistle and the man : I sing 
The man that won the whistle, etc. 

Here are we met, three merry boys; 

Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we’ve merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loun is he : 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa’, 

He is the king amang us three. ' 

To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale of 
prose—I have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, when 
I request you to get your guest. Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two 
enclosed covers for me; the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, 
of Robertland, Bart., at Kilmarnock ; the other to Mr. Allan Masterton, 
Writing-Master, Edinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir 
Robert, as being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the 
other is one of the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real 
genius ; so, allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want 
them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night 
I shall send a servant again for them in the evening. Wishing that 
your head may be crowned with laurels to-night, and free from aches 
to-morrow, 

I have the honor to be, Sir, 

Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 




56 o 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CXCIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, November, 1789. 

My dear Friend, 

I had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
find you; for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the 
precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. 
Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, 
but deliver you from evil! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an 
excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this 
I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as 
they call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to 
all intents and purposes an officer of excise, there to ffourish and bring 
forth fruits—worthy of repentance. 

I know not how the work exciseman, or, still more opprobrious, 
gauger, will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day, when my 
auditory nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; but a 
wife and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting 
these kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision 
for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement forapoeL 
For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement which 
I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respect¬ 
able, audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock: “Gentlemen, for your 
further and better encouragement, I can assure you that our regiment 
is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and, consequently, with 
us an honest fellow has the surest chance for preferment.” 

You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagree¬ 
able circumstances in my business; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human exist¬ 
ence in the most favorable situations does not abound with pleasures, 
and has its inconveniences and ills ; capricious, foolish man mistakes 
these inconveniences and ills, as if they were the peculiar property of 
his particular situation ; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of 
change, which has ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine fellow, as 
well as many a blockhead, and is, almost without exception, a constant 
source of disappointment and misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on—not so much in business, as 
in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and 
tolerably at ease in your internal reflections ? ’Tis much to be a great 
character as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great char- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


561 


acter as a man. That you may be both the one and the other is the 
earnest wish, and that you will be both is the firm persuasion, of, 

My dear Sir, etc., 

R. B. 


No. CXCV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, Uh November, 1789. 

I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both 
your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them 
as I wished ; and even now you are to look on this as merely confess¬ 
ing debt, and craving days. Few things could have given me so much 
pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra 
firma, and happy in that place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director of all things pecul¬ 
iarly bless you in all those endearing connections consequent on the 
tender and venerable names of husband and father! I have indeed 
been extremely lucky in getting an additional income of £50 a year, 
while, at the same time, the appointment will not cost me above £10 
or £12 per annum of expenses more than I must have inevitably in¬ 
curred. The worst circumstance is, that the excise division which I 
have got is so extensive, no less than ten parishes to ride over ; and it 
abounds besides with so much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare 
moment. However, labor endears rest, and both together are abso¬ 
lutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of human existence. I can¬ 
not meet you anywhere. No less than an order from the Board of 
Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much time as 
to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come and see me. We must have 
a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, before 
you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on 
earth, my brothers excepted ; and is not that an endearing circum¬ 
stance ? When you and I first met, we were at the green period of 
human life. The twig would easily take a bent, but would as easily 
return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but 
by the melancholy, though strong, influence of being both of the family 
of the unfortunate, we were entwined with one another in our growth 
towards advanced age ; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall 
attempt to undo the union ! You and I must have one bumper to my 
favorite toast, “ May the companions of our youth be the friends of 
our old age I” Come and see me one year ; I shall see you at Port, 
Glasgow the next: and if we can contrive to have a gossiping between 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


562 


our two bedfellows, it will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. 
Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu I 

I am ever, my daar Sir, yours, 

R. B. 


No. CXCVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRY. 

Sir, Qth December, 1789. 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and 
had certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something 
that throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, “ You 
have found Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and 
that interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by 
everything in your power to keep alive and cherish.” Now, though 
since God has thought proper to make one powerful and another help¬ 
less, the connection of obliger and obliged is all fair ; and though my 
being under your patronage is to me highly honorable, yet. Sir, allow 
me to flatter myself, that as a poet and an honest man you first inter¬ 
ested yourself in my welfare, and principally as such still you permit 
me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great deal smoother with 
me than I expected ; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of 
Mr. Mitchel, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, 
my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labor. Nor do I find 
my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. 
Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, 
like the visits of good angels, are short and far between ; but I meet 
them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few 
bagatelles, all of them the production of my leisure thoughts in my 
excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you 
will enter into any humor that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you 
have seen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. 
Though I dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant 
fire which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon and the Kil¬ 
marnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M’Gill, one 
of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor 
man! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest, 
of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that 
ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


563 


imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter 
winds. The enclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local; 
but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in 
my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in 
our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 

1 am too little a man to have any political attachments ; I am deeply 
indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both 
parties ; but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, 

and who.. is a character that one cannot speak of with 

patience.! 

Sir J. J. does what “ what man can do,” but yet I doubt his fate. 

No. CXCVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \Zth December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet-full of rhymes. Though 
at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. 
I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system—a sys¬ 
tem, the state of which is most conducive to our happiness, or the most 
productive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill 
with a nervous headache, that I have been obliged for a time to give up 
my excise-books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride 
once a week over ten muir parishes. What is man ?—To-day, in the 
luxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyments of existence ; in a few 
days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, 
counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions 
of anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows night, 
and night comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him 
no pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life is some¬ 
thing at which he recoils. 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret- 

What His you are, and we must shortly be ? 
-’tis no matter : 

A little time will make us learned as you are.” 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I shall 
still find myself in conscious existence ? When the last gasp of agony 
has announced that I am no more to those that knew me, and the few 

* This is evidently “ Old Q.,” the duke of Queensberry. 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


564 


who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is 
resigned into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to be¬ 
come in time a trodden clod, shall 1 be yet warm in life, seeing and 
seen, enjoying and enjoyed 1 Ye venerable sages and holy flamens, is 
there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another 
world beyond death ; or are they all alike, baseless visions and fabri¬ 
cated fables ? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the 
benevolent, the amiable, and the humane : what a flattering idea, then, 
is a world to come ! Would to God 1 as firmly believed it, as I ardently 
wish it! There 1 shall meet an aged parent, now at rest from the 
many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and bravely 
struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend, of 
my early life; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 
and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses were the aberrations of 
human nature, but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly, 
and noble ; and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated, a 
human form, it was thine! There should I, with speechless agony of 
rapture, again recognize my lost, my ever dear Mary I whose bosom 
was fraught with truth, honor, constancy, and love. 

“ My Mary, dear departed shade, 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? ” 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! I trust thou art no im¬ 
postor, and that Thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave is not one of the many impositions which time 
after time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
Thee “ shall all the families of the earth be blessed,” by being yet con¬ 
nected together in a better world, where every tie that bound heart to 
heart in this state of existence shall be, far beyond our present concep¬ 
tions, more endearing. 

l am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that 
what are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I 
cannot reason, I cannot think ; and, but to you, I would not venture to 
write anything above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much 
of the ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased wretch, who has 
impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness 
will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, 
and which he would throw into the fire, were he able to write anything 
better, or indeed anything at all. 

Rumor told me something of a son of yours, who was returned from 
the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news from James or 
Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; as 1 promise you, on 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


565 


the sincerity of a man who is weary of one world, and anxious about 
another, that scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to 
hear of any good thing befalling my honored friend. 

If you have a minute’s leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvre 
miserable. —R. B. 


No. CXCVIII. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir, 1790. 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the 
statistical account transmitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and may 
be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publica¬ 
tion, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge is cer¬ 
tainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reflection is giv¬ 
ing them a source of innocent and laudable amusement, and, besides, 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Im¬ 
pressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a plan so 
simple as to be practicable in any corner of the country ; and so use¬ 
ful, as to deserve the notice of every country gentleman who thinks 
the improvement of that part of his own species whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan a matter 
worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants and farming neighbors 
to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among therpselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by 
it for three years ; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to 
a distance, or death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings ; 
and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, 
sixpence more. With their entry-money, and the credit which they 
took on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of 
books at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase 
was always decided by the majority. At every meeting all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro¬ 
duced ; and the members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood, for that night, first on the list, had his choice of 
what volume he pleased in the whole collection; the second had his 
choice after the first; the third after the second, and so on to the last, 
^t next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the preceding 




566 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


meeting was last at this; he who had been second was first; and so 
on, through the whole three years. At the expiration of the engage¬ 
ment, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members 
themselves; each man had his share of the common stock, in money 
or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under 
Mr. Riddel’s patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, 
and what with their own purchases, they had collected together 
upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, 
that a good deal of trash would be bought. Among the books, how¬ 
ever, of this little library were Blair’s Sermons, Robertson’s History of 
Scotland, Hume’s History of the Stewarts, “The Spectator,” “Idler,” 
“ Adventurer,” “ Mirror,” “ Lounger,” “ Observer,” “ Man of Feeling,” 
“ Man of the World,” “ Chrystal,” “ Don Quixote,” “ Joseph Andrews,” 
etc. A peasant who can read and enjoy such books is certainly a 
much superior being to his neighbor who, perhaps, stalks beside his 
team very little removed, except in shape, from the brutes he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, 

I am. Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

A Peasant. 


No. CXCIX. 

TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL CONSTABLE. 

[Lady Winifred was grand-daughter of the Earl of Nithsdale, the 
romantic story of whose escape from the Tower (where he was im¬ 
prisoned for his share in the insurrection of 1715), through the heroism 
of his wife, is well known. She married William Haggerston Con¬ 
stable, of Everingham.J 

Ellisland, IQth Dec., 1789. 

. . . To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where 
I sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often the 
pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I have 
never done, and I trust never shall do. But with your ladyship I have 
the honor to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties 
in the whole moral world ; common sufferings in a cause where even to 
be unfortunate is glorious—the cause of heroic loyalty I Though my 
fathers had not illustrious honors and vast properties to hazard in the 
contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many 
units more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what 
they could they did, and what they had they lost: with unshaken 
firmness and unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


567 


with ruin for what they esteemed the cause of their king and their 
country. This language and the enclosed verses [addressed to Mr. 
William TytlerJ are for your ladyship’s eyes alone. Poets are not very 
famous for their prudence ; but as I can do nothing for a cause which 
is now nearly no more, I do not wish to hurt myself.—R. B. 

No. CC. 

TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., 

OP HODDAM. 

[Mr. Sharpe was a man of some accomplishments—a good violinist 
and a composer of original music. He also wrote verses for his own 
airs. The following letter was written by Burns under a fictitious 
signature, enclosing a ballad, in 1790 or 1791.] 

It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a 
poor devil; you are a feather in the cap of society, and 1 am a very 
hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honor to belong to the same family 
with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect 
that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honorable house 
of Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir ; I cannot indeed be properly said to belong 
to any house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my mother, who 
for many years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this 
bad world, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee 
and Portpatrick. By our common family I mean, Sir, the family of the 
Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an exquisite 
violin, and have a standard taste in the belles lettres. The other day a 
brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If 
I was pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have 
given it; and taking up the idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas 
enclosed. Will you allow me. Sir, to present you them, as the dearest 
offering that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ? I 
have a longing to take you by the hand and unburden my heart by 
saying, “Sir, I honor you as a ijian who supports the dignity of 
human nature amid an age when frivolity and avarice have, between 
them, debased us below the brutes that perish ! ” But, alas. Sir I to me 
you are unapproachable. It is true the Muses baptized me in Castalian 
streams, but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a name. As the 
sex have served many a good fellow, the Nine have given me a great 
deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades! they have beggared me. 
Would they but spare me a little of their cast linen I Were it only in 
my power to say that I have a shirt on my back I But the idle 
wenches ! like Solomon’s lilies, “they toil not, neither do they spin”: 
so I must e’en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the hang- 



568 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


man’s rope, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-colored fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I 
have given that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town 
to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even 
the hide of Job’s Behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no 
more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhand¬ 
some and ungrateful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly 
supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great 
favorite; and though I got it literally for an old song, I would not 
exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I was, during several years, 
a kind of factotum servant to a country gentleman, where I pickt up 
a good many scraps of learning, particularly in some branches of 
mathematics. Whenever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I 
take my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one side, 
and my fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat between my legs, I 
can by means of its brim, or rather brims, go through the whole doc¬ 
trine of the Conic Sections. 

However, Sir, don’t let me mislead you, as if I would interest your 
pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to 
live without her; and amid all my rags and poverty, I am as inde¬ 
pendent, and much more happy, than a monarch of the world. Accord¬ 
ing to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great 
drama of life simply as they act their parts. I can look on a worthless 
fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and can regard an honest 
scavenger with sincere respect. As you. Sir, go through your role with 
such distinguished merit, permit me to make one in the chorus of 
imiversal applause and assure you that, with the highest respect, 

I have the honor to be, etc. 

No. CCI. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellisland, nth January, 1790. 

Dear Brother, 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not in my 
present frame of mind much appetite for exertion in writing. My 
nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervad¬ 
ing every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my 
enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it 
go to hell! I’ll fight it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I have 
seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following 
prologue, which he spouted to his audience with applause ; 

No song or dance I bring from yon great city, 

That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the pity : 

Tho’ by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more.—If once I am clear of this curst farm, I should respire 
more at my ease.—R. B. 


CCII. 


TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, \Uh January, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, since a “ few summer days, 
and a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end,” why, my 
dear, much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent indolence— 
for I know it is nothing worse—step in between us, and bar the enjoy¬ 
ment of a mutual correspondence? We are not shapen out of the 
common, heavy, methodical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding, 
selfish race, the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings and 
hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the cursed influence of 
riches, which, whatever blessing there may be in other respects, are 
no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart; in the name of random 
sensibility, tlien, let never the moon change on our silence any more. 
I have had a tract of bad health most part of this winter, else you had 
heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am now got so much 
better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments of life. 

Our friend Cunningham will perhaps have told you of my going into 
the Excise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient business to 
have 50Z. per annum, nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying cir¬ 
cumstances in it that I was led to fear. 


Feb, 2. 

I HAVE not, for sheer hurry of business, been able to spare five 
minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm business, I ride on my 
Excise matters at least 200 miles every week. I have not by any means 
given up the Muses. You will see in the third vol. of Johnson’s “ Scots 
Songs ” that I have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for parental protec¬ 
tion are an important charge. I have already two fine, healthy, stout 
little fellows, and I wish to throw some light upon them. I have a 
thousand reveries and schemes about them and their future destiny— 
not that I am a Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved 









570 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


never to breed up a son of mine to any of the learned professions. I 
know the value of independence, and since I cannot give my sons an 
independent fortune, I shall give them an independent line of life. 
What a chaos of hurry, chance, and changes is this world, when one 
sits soberly down to reflect on it! To a father, who himself knows 
the world, the thought that he shall have sons to usher into it must 
fill him with dread; but if he have daughters, the prospect to a 
thoughtful man is apt to shock him. 

I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me 
forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a 
more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of 
my feelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser 
[which Mr. Dunbar had presented to himj to realize you to my imag¬ 
ination, and think over those social scenes we have had together. 
God grant that there may be another world more congenial to honest 
fellows beyond this ; a world where these rubs and plagues of absence, 
distance, misfortunes, ill health, etc., shall no more damp hilarity and 
divide friendship.—R. B. 


No. CCIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not 
written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, 
and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with 
the rest of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters ; but 
why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mer¬ 
cenary in my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent 
spirit, I hope it is neither poetic license, nor poetic rant; and I am so 
flattered with the honor you have done me, in making me your com¬ 
peer in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of the real inequality 
between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news 
of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow in the 
little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his for¬ 
tunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the “ Shipwreck,” which you 
so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catas¬ 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


571 


many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the “ Aurora ” 
frigate! 

I forget what part of Scotland had the honor of giving him birth; 
but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He was one of those 
daring adventurous spirits which Scotland, beyond any other country, 
is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as 
she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where 
the poor fellow may hereafter wanaer, and what may be his fate. I 
remember a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding 
its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart:— 

“ Little did my mother think. 

That day she cradled me, 

What land 1 was to travel in, 

Or what death 1 was to die 1 ” 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favorite study and pursuit of 
mine; and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas 
of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The 
catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. 
She concludes with this pathetic wish :— 

“ O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ! 

O that my mother had ne’er to me sung J 

O that my cradle had never been rock’d ; 

But that I had died when I was young \ 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet; 

The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a’; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep 1 ” 

I do not remember, in all my reading, to have met with anything 
more truly the language of misery than the exclamation in the last 
line. Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the author must 
have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson ’ the 
smallpox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. 
Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, hand¬ 
somest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly 
swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the car¬ 
riage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise 
the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I prom¬ 
ise you poetry until you are tired of it next time I have the honor of 
assuring you how truly I am, etc.—R. B. 

’ His second son, Francis. 

18—Burns—Y 





572 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCIV. 

TO MR. PETER HILL, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, M Feb., 1790. 

No I I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not 
writing ; I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 
miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where 
can I find time to write to, or importance to interest, anybody ? The 
upbraidings of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have 
persecuted me on your account these two or three months past. I 
wish to God I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw 
light upon you, to let the world see what you really are; and then I 
would make your fortune, without putting my hand in my pocket for 
you, which, like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much 
as possible. What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you 
lately seen any of my few friends ? What has become of the Borough 
Reform, or how is the fate of my poor namesake Mademoiselle Burns 
decided? . . . O man ! but for thee, and thy selfish appetites and dis¬ 
honest artifices, that beauteous form, and that once innocent and still 
ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and lovely in the 
faithful wife and the affectionate mother ; and shall the unfortunate 
sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity ? 

I saw lately in a Review some extracts from a new poem called 
“ The Village Curate” : send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of 
“The World.” Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the 
honor to mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best 
thanks for the copy of his book : I shall write him my first leisure 
hour. I like his poetry much, but I think his style in prose quite 
astonishing.—R. B. 


No. CCV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[The poet’s marriage did not entirely break off his correspondence 
with Mrs. M’Lehose. She had written to him reproachfully, and the 
following is his reply.] 

Feb., 1790 (?). 

I HAVE indeed been ill. Madam, the whole winter. An incessant 
headache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences 
of a deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


573 


and peace. Add to all this, a line of life into which I have lately en¬ 
tered obliges me to ride, on the average, at least 200 miles every week. 
However, thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. . . . 

I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances : else I 
could show you how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct 
leagued with a conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a 
possibility of keeping the path of rectitude to curse me, by an irrecon¬ 
cilable war between my duty and my nearest wishes, and to damn me 
with a choice only of different species of error and misconduct. 

1 dare not trust myself further with this subject. The following 
song is one of my latest productions, and I send it you as I would do 
anything else, because it pleases myself. 

[Here follows “My Lovely Nancy.”] 


No. CCVI. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 9,1790. 

My dear Sir, 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would freely have given 
her price to have saved her ; she has vexed me beyond description. 
Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I 
eagerly grasped at your offer to have the mare with me. That I might 
at least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, 1 took ever^ care 
of her in my power. She was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me or in my keeping. 1 drew her in the plough, one 
of three, for one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, 
which was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and 
had her in fine order for Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before 
the fair, she was seized with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, 
or somewhere in the bones of the neck ; with a weakness or total want 
of power in her fillets ; and, in short, the whole vertebrae of her spine 
seemed to be diseased and unhinged ; and in eight and forty hours, in 
spite of the two best farriers in the country, she died—and be d-mned 
to her ! The farriers said that she had been quite strained in the fillets 
beyond cure before you had bought her; and that the poor devil, 
though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn 
out with fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, she was 
under my own eye: and I assure you, my much valued friend, every¬ 
thing was done for her that could be done ; and the accident has vexed 
me to the heart. In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write to you 
on account of the unfortunate business. 



574 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


There is little new in this country. Our theatrical company, of 
which you must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and 
character are indeed very great, both on tlie stage and in private life ; 
not a worthless creature among them : and their encouragement has 
been accordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five 
pounds a night: seldom less than the one, and the house will hold no 
more than the other. There have been repeated instances of sending 
away six, and eight, and ten pounds a night for want of room. A new 
theater is to be built by subscription : the first stone is to be laid on 
Friday first to come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by 
thirty subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if wanted. 
The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced to me by a friend from 
Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow 1 have rarely met with. Some 
of our clergy have slipped in by stealth now and then ; but they have 
got up a farce of their own. You must have heard how the Rev. Mr. 
Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of 
Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have accused in formal process 
the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining 
Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean he, the said Heron, feloni¬ 
ously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the confession of faith, 
so far as it teas agreeable to reason and the Word of God! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby 
and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with 
fatigue for these two or three months, on an average, I have not 
ridden less than two hundred miles per week. 1 have done little in the 
poetic way : I have given Mr. Sutherland two prologues ; one of which 
was delivered last week. I have likewise strung four or five barbarous 
stanzas, to the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un¬ 
fortunate mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson): 

“ Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trod on aim : 

But now she’s floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o’ Cairn.”—etc. {Page 223.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the 
family. I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts 
and apples with me next harvest.—R. B. 

No. CCVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, nth February, 1790, 

I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to 
you on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet— 

” My poverty, but not my will, consents.” 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


575 


But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one 
poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my 
plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that 
impolite scoundred. Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine¬ 
apple to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing helpmate of a village 
priest; or a glass of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a 
foot-padding exciseman ; I make a vow to enclose this sheet-full of 
epistolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought 
to have written to you long ere now ; but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will not write to you ; Miss 
Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his Grace the Duke 
of Queensberry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham 
to me. It is not that I cannot write to j’^ou ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, 
and be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circunivolute 
periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology :— 

December, 1788. 

My dear Cunningham, 

Where are you ? And what are you doing ? Can you be that 
son of levity who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion ? or are 
you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim 
of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing w’eight ? 

What strange beings we are ? Since we have a portion of conscious 
existence equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, 
or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an 
inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be not applicable to en¬ 
joyment ; and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, 
which renders our little scantling of happiness still less, and a profuse¬ 
ness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self¬ 
abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, 
decent competency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; 
and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good 
things contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to wliose 
lot few of them have fallen ? I believe one great source of this mis¬ 
take or misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called 
ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other 
eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended land¬ 
scape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking down on others 
of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in humbler station, 
etc., etc. 





576 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Sundayy lith February^ 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

“ Night to day, and Sunday to the week.” 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am 
d-mned past redemption, and, what is worse, d mned to all eternity. 
I am deeply read in Boston’s “ Fourfold State,” Marshal on Sanctifica¬ 
tion, Guthrie’s “Trial of a Saving Interest,” etc.; but “there is no 
balm in Gilead, there is no physician there,” for me : so I shall e’en 
turn Arminian, and trust to “ sincere though imperfect obedience.” 

Tuesday, IQth. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty 
point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and care are 
of this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear 
from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist; but I fear every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a Skeptic. It is not that 
there are any very staggering arguments against the immortality of 
man ; but, like electricity, phlogiston, etc., the subject is so involved 
in darkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing frightens me 
much; that we are to live forever seems too good neWs to he true. 
That we are to enter into a new scene of exisience, where, exempt from 
want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without satiety 
or separation — how much should I be indebted to any one who could 
fully assure me that this was certain. 

My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. 
God bless him and all his concerns! And may all the powers that 
preside over conviviality and friendship be present with all their kindest 
influence when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet!—I wish I 
could also make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatso¬ 
ever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and think on 

R. B. 


No. CCVIII. 

TO MR. HILL. 

[The order for the works of the dramatists is supposed to indicate 
a design on Burns’s part to try his own hand at dramatic composi¬ 
tion.] 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

.... In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want 
very much “ An Index to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


577 


the Statutes now in force relative to the Excise,” by Jellinger Symons : 
1 want three copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, 
get it for me. An honest country neighbor of mine wants too a 
Family Bible, the larger the better, but second-handed, for he does 
not choose to give above ten shillings for the book. I want likewise for 
myself, as you can pick them up, second-handed or cheap, copies of 
Otway’s Dramatic Works, Ben Jonson’s, Dryden’s, Congreve’s, Wycher¬ 
ley’s, Vanbrugh’s, Cibber’s, or any Dramatic Works of the more 
modern, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy 
too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any other good dramatic 
authors in that language I want also ; but comic authors chiefly, though 
I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. 1 am in no 
hurry for all or any of these, but if you accidentally meet with them 
very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear 
friend ? and how is Mrs. Hill ? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
wife too has a charming “ wood-note wild ; ” now could we four- 

I am out of all patience with this vile world for one thing. Mankind 
are by natui;e benevolent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly 
instances, I do not think that avarice of the good things we chance to 
have is born with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, 
and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity 
of studying selfishness, in order that we may exist I Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot 
debase to selfishness, or even to the necessary alloy of caution and 
prudence. If ever 1 am in danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate 
myself on this side of my disposition and character. God knows I am 
no saint; I have a whole host of follies and sins to answer for ; but if 
I could, and I believe 1 do it as far as 1 can, I would wipe away all tears 
from all eyes. Adieu I 

R. B. 


No. ru^x. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, lOf/i Aprily 1790, 

I HAVE just now, my ever honored friend, enjoyed a very high 
luxury, in reading a paper of the “ Lounger.” You know my national 
prejudices. 1 have often read and admired the “ Spectator,” “ Adven¬ 
turer,” “ Rambler,” and “World”; but still with a certain regret, 
that they were so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! have I often 
said to myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my country 



578 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


reaps from the union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her 
independence, and even her very name ! 1 often repeat that couplet 

of my favorite poet, Goldsmith— 

“-States of native liberty possest, 

Tho’ very poor, may yet be very blest.” 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, “ English ambas¬ 
sador, English court,” etc. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by “ the Commons of 
England.” Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in 
my conscience such ideas as my country ; her independence; her 
honor ; the illustrious names that mark the history of my native land ” ; 
etc.—I believe these, among your men of the world, men who in fact 
guide for the most part and govern our world, are looked on as so many 
modifications of w-rongheadedness. They know the use of bawling 
out such terms, to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their own private 
use, with almost all the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, 
when they talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper and im¬ 
proper ; and their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, but 
what they dare. For the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges of man that ever 
lived—the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could 
thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with his interests, 
and who could completely put on the appearance of every virtue 
as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, 
the perfect man; a man to lead nations. But are great abilities 
complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard 
of human excellence? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of 
the world, but 1 call on honor, virtue, and worth, to give the Stygian 
doctrine a loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you 
abstract from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, then 
the true measure of human conduct is proper and improper; virtue 
and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the 
same import and value to the world at large as harmony and discord 
in the modifications of sound; and a delicate sense of honor, like a 
nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give the possessor an 
ecstasy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the 
harsh gratings and inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned state of being, it 
is odds but the individual would be as happy, and certainly would be 
as much respected by the true judges of society, as it would then stand, 
without either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the “ Mirror ” and “ Lounger” 
for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with them : I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one 1 have just 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


579 


read, “ Lounger,” No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than anything 
I have read a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of 
the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com¬ 
parison. If he has not Addison’s exquisite humor, he as certainly out¬ 
does him in the tender and the pathetic. His “ Man of Feeling ” (but 
I am not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I estimate as the 
first performance in its kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or 
even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more 
congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity and benevolence—in 
short, more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to 
others—than from the simple affecting tale of poor Harley ? 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie’s writings, I do not know 
if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, 
as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think. Madam, 
that among the few favored of Heaven in the structure of their minds 
(for such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a 
dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, 
absolutely disqualifying, for the truly important business of making a 
man’s way into life? If lam not much mistaken, my gallant young 

friend A-is very much under these disqualifications : and for the 

young females of a family I could mention, well may they excite 
parental solicitude ; for I, a common acquaintance, or, as my vanity will 
have it, an humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind 
which may render them eminently happy—or peculiarly miserable! 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; but as I have got the 
most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more 
leisure to transcribe anything that 'may show how much I have the 
honor to be. Madam, 

Yours, etc., 

R. B. 


No. OCX. 

TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

[This letter refers to an Excise case, a farmer having reclaimed 
against a fine imposed by Collector Mitchell.] 

Ellisland, 1790. 

Sir, 

I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night—I wish and 
pray that the Goddess of Justice herself would appear to-morrow 
among our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear 
that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part, 
I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment 



58 o 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


that I am just alighted, or, rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a 
horse has let me down, for the miserable devil has been on his knees 
half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his 
own way, “Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which 
thou hast ridden these many years ! ” 

In short, Sir, I have broke my horse’s wind, and almost broke my 
own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing 
to a hardhearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so 
many great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I 
am not committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow for insolence 
to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. 

I have the honor to be. Sir, 

Your obliged and obedient humble 

R. B. 


No. CCXI. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Dumfries, Excise-Office, lith July, 1790. 

Sir, 

Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this 
office, it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he 
is on his way to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, 
as franking is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, amid our horrid business and 
bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; but let my letter be 
as stupid as . . . , as miscellaneous, as a newspaper, as short as a 
hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas 
cause, as ill-spelt as country John’s billet-doux, or as unsightly a 
scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker’s answer to it, I hope, considering the 
circumstances, you will forgive it; and as it will put you to no 
expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most 
valuable present, “ Zeluco.” In fact, you are in some degree blame- 
able for my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for my 
opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that nothing less wOuld 
serve my over-weening fancy than a formal criticism on the book. In 
fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you. Fielding, 
Richardson, and Smollett, in your different qualities and merits as 
novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may 
probably never bring the business to bear; and I am fond of the spirit 
young Elihu shows in the book of Job—“ And I said, I will also declare 
my opinion.” I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


581 


pnnotations. I never take it up without at the same time taking my 
pencil, and marking with asterisms, parentheses, etc., wherever I meet 
with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manner, a 
remarkable well-turned period, or a character sketched with uncom¬ 
mon precision. 

Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my “ Compara¬ 
tive View,’' I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as 
they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the 
book of Revelation—“ That time shall be no more ! ” 

The little collection of sonnets [by Mrs. Charlotte Smith] have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am indebted to the fair author 
for the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, with my 
grateful acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative 
excellence of her pieces. I would do thrs* last, not from any vanity of 
thinking that my remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, 
but merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would be 
done by.—R. B. 


No. CCXII. 

TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 

Ellisland, July \Uh, 1790. 

My dear Sir, 

I received a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately, as 
it was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through 
Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, and, by consequence, your direction 
along wdth it. Luckily my good star brought me acquainted with Mr. 
Kennedy, who I understand is an acquaintance of yours ; and by his 
means and mediation I hope to replace that link which my unfortunate 
negligence had so unluckily broke in the chain of our correspondence. 
I was the more vexed at the vile accident, as my brother William, a 
journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London ; and wished 
above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his respects 
to his father’s friend. 

His last address he sent me was, “Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber’s, 
saddler. No. 181, Strand.” I writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected 
to ask him for your address ; so, if you find a spare half-minute, please 
let my brother know by a card where and when he will find you, and 
the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving 



582 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


friends of the man whose name, and Christian name too, he has the 
honor to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long one ; I have much to tell 
you of “ hair-breadth ’scapes in th’ imminent deadly breach,” with all 
the eventful history of a life,i the early years of which owed so much 
to your kind tutorage ; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest 
compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 

1 am ever, ray dear Sir, 

Your obliged Friend, 

R. B. 


No. CCXIII. 

TO MR. McMURDO. 

Ellisland, %d August, 1790. 

Sir, 

Now that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of 
Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities that on 
all sides, and in all parties, preside over the villainous business of 
Politics, permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to 
soothe you with a song .2 

You knew Henderson—1 have not flattered his memory. 

1 have the honor to be. Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CCXIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

^th August, 1790. 

Dear Madam, 

After a long day’s toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why I have delayed it so long. It was owing to hurry, 
indolence, and fifty other things; in short, to anything—but forget¬ 
fulness of la plus amiable de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted 
your best courtesy to me for this last compliment; as I pay it from 
my sincere conviction of its truth—a quality rather rare in compliments 
of these grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my troubled soul. 
Sorely has it been bruised to-day I A ci-devant friend of mine, and an 

^ This promised account of himself, as far as is known, was never written. 

* A poem on the death of Captain Matthew Henderson, with whom Burns was ac«> 
quainted when in Edinburgh. Henderson died Nov. 21,1788. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


583 


intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I 
perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my 
pride !—R. B. 


No. CCXV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8th August, 1788. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negli¬ 
gence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and 
had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening; a 
bride on the market-day before her marriage ; or a tavern-keeper at an 
election-dinner; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is that 
blackguard miscreant Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seek¬ 
ing, searching whom he may devour. However, tossed about as lam, 
if I choose (and who would not choose?) to bind down with the cram- 
pets of Attention the brazen foundation of Integrity, I may rear up the 
superstructure of Independence, and from its daring turrets bid de¬ 
fiance to the storms of fate. And is not this a “ consummation de¬ 
voutly to be wished ? ” 

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share; 

Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye 1 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky I ” 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduction of Smollett’s 
Ode to Independence : if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favors of the 
great! To shrink from every dignity of man at the approach of a 
lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter and 
stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art—and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art—came into the world a puling infant as thou 
didst, and must go out of it as all men must, a naked corse.—R. B. 


No. CCXVI. 

TO DR. ANDERSON. 

[Dr. James Anderson was editor of the “Bee,” and through Dr, 
Blacklock had asked Burns to become a contributor. 1 

Sir, [1790.] 

I am much indebted to my worthy friend Dr. Blacklock for in¬ 
troducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson’s celebrity, but when 




584 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


you do me the honor to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, 
alas, Sir! you might as well expect to cheapen a little honesty at the 
sign of an advocate’s wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a 
miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding 
the noses of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the Excise ! and, 
like Milton’s Satan, for private reasons, am forced 

“ To do what yet tho’ damn’d I would abhor ; ” 

—-and accept a couplet or two of honest execration . . . —R, B. 

No. CCXVII. 

TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ. 

EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, \^th October, 1790. 

Dear Sir, 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. 
Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom 1 have long known and long 
loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in 
Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to the law, in which depart¬ 
ment he comes up an adventurer to your good town. I shall give you 
my friend’s character in two words : as to his head, he has talents 
enough and more than enough, for common life ; as to his heart, when 
Nature had kneaded the kindly clay that composes it, she said, “ I can 
no more.” 

You, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars ; but your fraternal 
sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to 
be something among his fellow-creatures, but whom the consciousness 
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth and wounds to the soul! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent 
spirit and that ingenuous modesty—qualities inseparable from a noble 
mind—are, with the million, circumstances not a little disqualifying. 
What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their 
notice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the 
heart of such depressed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind for 
their deaf economy of the purse ; the goods of this w’^orld cannot be 
divided without being lessened ; but why be a niggard of that which 
bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own 
means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own 
better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and woes of 
our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favor. That indirect 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


585 


address, that insinuating implication, which, without any positive re¬ 
quest, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be acquired at a 
plough-tail. Tell me then, for you can, in what periphrasis of language, 
in what circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelop, yet not conceal, 
this plain story : “My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I 
have the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young lad of your own 
profession, and a gentleman of much modesty and great worth. Per¬ 
haps it may be in your power to assist him in the, to him, important 
consideration of getting a place; but, at all events, your notice and 
acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to him; and I dare 
pledge myself that he will never disgrace your favor.” 

You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at such a letter from me ; ’tis, I 
own, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than our ac¬ 
quaintance entitles me to ; but my answer is short: Of all the men at 
your time of life whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces¬ 
sible on the side on which I have assailed you. You are very much 
altered indeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity 
point the path you will not tread, or humanity call to you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are still a well- 
wisher, I am here, breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation has its share of the cares and 
pains of life, and my situation I am persuaded has a full ordinary 
allowance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have an 
opportunity, please remember me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her; 
but I am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way, that my 
conscience lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in 
its shell. Where is Lady McKenzie ? wherever she is, God bless her I 
I likewise beg leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. Wm, 
Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, when you 
are in that country. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please 
remember me kindly to her. 

R. Bo 


No. CCXVIII. 


TO - 

[This letter was perhaps addressed to Gavin Hamilton.] 


Ellisland, 1790. 


Dear Sir, 

Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the 
Rev, Doctor is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax’s shield consisted, I 





586 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


think, of seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set 
Hector’s utmost force at defiance. Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the 
worthy Doctor’s foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance, 
superstition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy—all 
strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, 
Sir ! to such a shield, humor is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the 
pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation-disgracing scMerats such as they 
God only can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the com¬ 
prehending way of Caligula, 1 wish they all had but one neck. I 
feel impotent as a child to the ardor of my wishes! O for a 
withering curse to blast the germins of their wicked machinations. 
O for a poisonous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to 
sweep the spreading crop of their villainous contrivances to the lowest 
hell 1—R. B. 


No. CCXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, November, 1790. 

“ As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.” 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for 
the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I 
most cordially obey the Apostle—“ Rejoice with them that do rejoice.” 
For me, to sing for joy, is no new thing, but to preach for joy, as I 
have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extrav¬ 
agant rapture to which I never rose before. 

I read your letter—I literally jumped for joy : how could such a 
mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of 
the best news from his best friend? I seized my gilt-headed Wangee 
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the 
moment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, stride—quick and 
quicker—out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my 
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. 
Mrs. Little’s ^ is a more elegant, but not more sincere, compliment to 
the sweet little fellow than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in 
the following verses :— 

“Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love, 

And ward o’ mony a prayer, 

What heart o’ stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, an’ fair ? 

November hirples o’er the lea 
Chill on thy lovely form ; 

But gane, alas I the shelt’ring tree 
Should shield thee frae the storm.” 

^ The poetical milkmaid. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


587 


I am much flattered by your approbation of my “ Tam o’ Shan ter,” 
which you express in your former letter ; though, by the bye, you load 
me in that said letter with accusations heavy and many ; to all which 
I plead, not guilty ! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. 
As to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have 
only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly ; as to the 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves.—R. B. 

No. CCXX. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, \lth January, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d-mned 
account of yours, which has gagged my mouth these five or six 
months ! 1 can as little write good things as apologies to the man I 
owe money to. O the supreme curse of making three guineas do 
the business of five ! Not at all the labors of Hercules, not all the 
Hebrew’s three centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an insuper¬ 
able business, such an infernal task I Poverty 1 thou half-sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell! where shall I find force of 
execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? Oppressed by 
thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every 
virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little, little aid 
to support his existence from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him denied 
and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose 
heart glows with independence and melts with sensibility, inly pines 
under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely, 
of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable 
and polite, must see in suffering silence his remark neglected and his 
person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, 
shall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family 
of worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly 
and vice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart 
equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate dis¬ 
position and neglected education is condemned as a fool for his dis¬ 
sipation ; despised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies, as 
usual, bring him to want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive 
him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes 
by the justice of his country But far otherwise is the lot of the man 
of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance are spirit 
and fire; his consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


588 


fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal com¬ 
mission to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, 
he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder, 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, 
worst of all, alas ! for helpless women. The needy prostitute, who has 
shivered at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of 
casual prostitution, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the 
chariot-wheels of the coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty assign¬ 
ation ; she who, without the same necessities to plead, riots nightly 
in the same guilty trade. 

Well I divines may say of it what they please, but execration is to 
the mind what phlebotomy is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations.—R. B. 

No. CCXXI. 

TO A. F. TYTLER,'ESQ.i 

Sir, Ellisland, February [April 1791. 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with could 
have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own favorite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the muses 
entirely new to him,where consequently his hopes and fears were on the 
most anxious alarm for his success in the attempt,—to have that poem 
so much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious vi¬ 
bration that ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet. How¬ 
ever, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, 
which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to 
check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or two 
after I received your letter my horse came down with me and broke 
my right arm. As this is the first service my arm has done me since 
its disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just in general terms 
thank you for this additional instance of your patronage and friend¬ 
ship. As to the faults you detected in the piece they are truly there; 
one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out ; as to 
the falling off in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly adduce, 
it cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, Sir, has given me 
such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic composi¬ 
tion, that I am already revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
will give me an additional opportunity of assuring you how much 1 
have the honor to be, &c.—R. B. 


‘ Lord Woodhouselee. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


589 


No. CCXXIl. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 7th Feb. [^pn7 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse,^ but with 
my horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing, you will 
allow that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able to rhj'me a little, which 
implies some tolerable ease; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

1 do not remember if ever 1 mentioned to you my having an idea of 
composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Monboddo. I had the 
honor of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt 
so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard that so ami¬ 
able and accomplished a piece of God’s work was no more. 1 have as 
yet gone no farther than the following fragment, of which please let 
me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much 
exhausted, that any new idea on the business is not to be expected ; 
’tis well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far 1 
have succeeded as to this last you will judge from what follows. 

[Here comes the Elegy.] 

1 have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance of your godson, came 
safe. This last. Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to 
the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have of a long 
time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and 
measles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor’s 
drugs in his bowels. 

1 am truly happy to hear that the “ little floweret” is blooming so 
fresh and fair, and that the “ mother plant” is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her “cruel wounds” be healed ! 
I have written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
little abler you shall hear further from. 

Madam, yours, 

R. B. 


No. CCXXIII. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

[The Rev. Arch. Alison, a clergyman of the English Church, is best 
known as the author of “ An Essay on Taste,” and as the father of the 
1 He had a bad fall and broke his right arm. 





390 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


late Sir Archibald Alison, the historian of Europe. Dugald Stewart 
has referred to this letter as proof that Burns, imperfectly educated as 
he was, had formed “a distinct conception of the general principles 
of the doctrine of association.”] 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, IWi Feb ., 1791. 

Sir, 

You must by this time have set me down as one of the most ungrate¬ 
ful of men. You did me the honor to present me with a book which 
does honor to science and the intellectual powers of man, and I have 
not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you 
yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me that 
you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of 
mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most 
easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the lookout of a critic, and to draw up, forsooth ! a deep learned 
digest of strictures on a composition of which, in fact, until I read the 
book, I did not even know the first principles. I own, Sir, that at first 
glance several of your propositions startled me as paradoxical. That 
the martial clangor of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, 
heroic, and sublime, than the twingle-twangle of a jews-harp ; that 
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is 
heavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and 
elegant than the upright stub of a burdock, and that from something 
innate and independent of all associations of ideas ;—these I had set 
down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook 
my faith. In short. Sir, except Euclid’s Elements of Geometry,” 
which I made a shift to unravel by my father’s fireside, in the winter 
evenings of the first season I held the plough, I never read a book 
which gave me such a quantum of information, and added so much to 
my stock of ideas, as your “ Essays on the Principles of Taste. ’ One 
thing. Sir, you must forgive my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work—I mean the language. To clothe abstract philosophy in 
elegance of style sounds something like a contradiction in terms^ but 
you have convinced me that they are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one 
in print is my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir,.etc,, 

R B 

No. CCXXIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 28^/i January, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you area subscriber to Grose’s “Anti- 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


591 


quities of Scotland.” If you are, the enclosed poem will not be 
altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favor to send me a 
dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have 
read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have in 
view ; it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all your 
goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing you that the abilities 
you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still employed in 
the way you wish. 

The ‘‘ Elegy on Captain Henderson” is a tribute to the memory of a 
man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman 
Catholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have 
passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to 
the dead is, I fear, very problematical ; but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox text, I forget where, 
in Scripture says, “ Whatsoever is not of faith is sin,” so say I, What¬ 
soever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of 
God, the Giver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed 
by His creatures with thankful delight. As almost all my religious 
tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea, 
that I can still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved 
friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world 
of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy’s 
“ Reliques of English Poetry.” By the way, how much is every honest 
heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for 
your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe I ’Twas an unequivocal 
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I 
should have been mortified to the ground if you had not.^ 

I have just read over, once more of many times, your “ Zeluco.” I 
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which, with 
humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the 
book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, 
or at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them 
to you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart is your 
and Fielding’s province, beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. 
Richardson, indeed, might perhaps be excepted; but, unhappily, his 
dramatis personce are beings of another world ; and however they may 
captivate the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they 
will ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our study, 
dissatisfy our riper years. 

* Targe, representing the Cavalier Highland spirit, overcomes Buchanan, repre¬ 
senting the colder Lowland feeling in a quarrel about Queen Mary. 






592 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer be¬ 
fore the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on 
the list of Excise as a supervisor. 1 am not yet employed as such, but 
in a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. 
I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the 
patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Indepen¬ 
dent of my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong 
that it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of 
my existence, so soon as the Prince’s friends had got in (and every dog, 
you know, has his day), my getting forward in the Excise would have 
been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a 
consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live 
and rhyme as 1 am ; and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I cannot 
place them on as high an elevation in life as 1 could wish, I shall, if I 
am favored so much of the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix 
them on as broad and independent a basis as possible. Among the 
many wise adages which have been treasured up by our Scottish an¬ 
cestors, this is one of the best, Better be the head o’ the commonalty 
than the tail o’ the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no 
manner of consequence to you ; so 1 shall give you a short poem on the 
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the 
honor to be, 

Yours, etc., 

R. B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which 1 presented to a very 
young lady, whom 1 had formerly characterized under the denomina¬ 
tion of The Rose-bud. 


No. CCXXV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, \2th March, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece, be worth your strictures, let me have them. 
For my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium in which an author 
will ever view his own works. I believe, in general, novelty has some¬ 
thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates 
and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
as usual, with an aohing heart. A striking instance of this might be 
adduced in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest 


’ By this Burns means th3 annexed verses, “ Py von castle w«’ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


593 


I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of 
my parish priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you 
another song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps in 
Johnson’s work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, “ There’ll never be peace 
till Jamie comes hame.” When political combustion ceases to be the 
object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful 
prey of historians and poets. 

“ By yon castle wa* at the close of the day 
I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was gray: 

And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— 

There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.” 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot 
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by the 
charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to 
“ the memory of joys that are passed ” to the few friends whom you 
indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock 
has intimated the near approach of 

“ That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane.” 

So good-night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams. 
Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad I have just now on 
the tapis ?— 

” I look to the west when I gae to rest. 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be: 

Far, far in the west is he I lo’e best, 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me.” 

Goodnight, once more, and God bless you 1—R. B, 

No. CCXXVI. 

TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL," 

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 

[The poem was on the recent death of Lord Glencairn, for whom Mr. 
Dalzel had acted as factor.] 

Ellisland, l^th March, 1791. 

My dear Sir, 

I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an 
idle poem of mine, which I send you ; and, God knows, you may per¬ 
haps pay dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my 
own opinion, but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected 
his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination. 







594 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


1 can easily guess from-my own heart what you have felt on a late 
most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered at the loss 
of my best friend, my first and dearest patron and benefactor ; the 
man to whom I owe all that I am and have I I am gone into mourning 
for him, and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by 
nature’s ties ought to feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, to let me know the news 
of the noble family—how the poor mother and the two sisters support 
their loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady 
Betty, when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honored remains of my noble patron are designed 
to be brought to the family burial place. Dare I trouble you to let me 
know privately before the day of interment, that I may cross the 
country, and steal among the crowd to pay a tear to the last sight of 
my ever-revered benefactor ? It will oblige me beyond expression.— 
R. B. 


No. CCXXVII. 

TO MRS. GRAHAM. 

OF FINTRY. 

[To Mrs. Graham the Poet afterwards presented the new edition of 
his poems, with these characteristic words written on one of the blank 
leaves : “ It is probable. Madam, that this page may be read, when the 
hand that now writes it shall be moldering in the dust. May it then 
bear witness, that I present you these volumes as a tribute of grati¬ 
tude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham’s good¬ 
ness to me has been generous and noble t May every child of yours, in 
the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine 
that their father found in you.— Robert Burns.”] 


Ellisland, 1791. 

Madam, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a 
peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have in the en¬ 
closed ballad succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; 
but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while 
past; on that account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the 
purity of my motives may be suspected. I am already deeply indebted 
to Mr. Graham’s goodness ; and what, in the usual ivays of men, is of 
infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost 
importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog ; and however I 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


595 


may occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must 
live and die poor : but I will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry 
will considerably outlive my poverty; and without any fustian affec¬ 
tation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it must be no ordinary 
craving of the latter shall ever make me do anything injurious to the 
honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my failings, for fail¬ 
ings are a part of human nature, may they ever be those of a generous 
heart and an independent mind ! It is no fault of mine that I was born 
to dependence ; nor is it Mr. Graham’s chiefest praise that he can com¬ 
mand influence ; but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the kind¬ 
ness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; and I trust 
it shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness and remember with un¬ 
diminished gratitude.—R. B. 

No. CCXXVIII. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

[This is an answer to an application to revise the poems of Michael 
Bruce, and to add some verses of his own to an edition which was about 
to be published for the benefit of Bruce’s mother, then 80 years of age, 
poor and helpless.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 

Reverend Sir, 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style 
on the business of poor Bruce ? Don’t I know, and have I not felt, the 
many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to ? You shall have 
your choice of all the unpublished poems I have ; and had your letter 
had my direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came to my 
hand this moment), I should have directly put you out of suspense on 
the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription bills, may bear, that the publication 
is solely for the benefit of Bruce’s mother. I would not put it in the 
power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed 
a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need you give me 
credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of the business. I 
have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings 
(anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse appel¬ 
lation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the account, 
I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power to a 
fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little the vista 
of retrospection,—R. B. 


18—Burns—Z 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


596 


No. CCXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, nth April, 1791. 

I AM once more able, my honored friend, to return you, with my own 
hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particu¬ 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had 
in store for me. However, life is chequered—joy and sorrow—for on 
Saturday morning last Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy; 
rather stouter but not so handsome as your godson was at his time of 
life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to be my chef d’oeuvre in 
that species of manufacture, as I look on “ Tam o’ Shan ter ” to be my 
standard performance in the poetical line. ’Tis true, both the one and 
the other discover a spice of roguish waggery that might perhaps be as 
well spared ; but then they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius 
and a finishing polish that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is 
getting stout again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast as 
a reaper from the corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and bless¬ 
ing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are bred among the hay and 
heather. We cannot hope for that highly polished mind, that charm¬ 
ing delicacy of soul, which is found among the female world in the 
more elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far the most 
bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is indeed such 
an inestimable treasure, that, where it can be had in its native heav¬ 
enly purity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades of af¬ 
fectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species of 
caprice, I declare to Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased at 
the expense of every other earthly good ! But as this angelic creature 
is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and 
totally denied to such an humble one as mine, we meaner mortals must 
put up with the next rank of female excellence. As fine a figure and 
face we can produce as any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; 
unaffected modesty and unsullied purity ; nature’s mother-wit and the 
rudiments of taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unac¬ 
quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous 
world ', and, the dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of 
disposition and a generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our 
part and ardently glowing with a more than equal return; these, with 
a healthy frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher 
ranks can scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman 
in my humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


597 


hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small¬ 
pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him I—R. B. 

No. CCXXX. 

TO - 


Ellisland, 1790. 

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago ; but the 
truth is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings; and when I 
matriculate in the herald’s office, I intend that my supporters shall be 
two sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, “ Deil tak’ the fore¬ 
most.” So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for 
*^our kind execution of my commission.—R. B. 

No. CCXXXI. 

TO- 

[This tremendous scolding is supposed to have been sent to a snarl¬ 
ing critic who had complained of the false grammar and uncouthness 
of Burns’s poems.' 


.LISLAND, 1791. 

Thou eunuch of language : thou Englishman, who never was south 
the Tweed : thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms: thou quack, 
vending the nostrums of empirical elocution: thou marriage-maker 
between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice; thou 
cobbler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory: thou black¬ 
smith, hammering the rivets of absurdity : thou butcher, embruing thy 
hands in the bowels of orthography : thou arch-heretic in pronuncia¬ 
tion : thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis: thou carpenter, mortising 
the awkward joints of jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance 
of cadence : thou pimp of gender : thou Lyon Herald to silly etymol- 
og}’-: thou antipode of grammar : thou executioner of construction: 
thou brood of the speech-distracting builders of the Tower of Babel: 
thou lingual confusion worse confounded : thou scape-gallows from the 
land of syntax : thou scavenger of mode and tense : thou murderous 
accoucheur of infant learning : thou ignis fatuus, misleading the steps 
of benighted ignorance: thou pickle-herring in the puppet-show of 
nonsense : thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom : thou persecutor 
of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating the 
rapid approach of Nox and Erebus.—R. B. 








598 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCXXXII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

nth June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentle¬ 
man who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, prin¬ 
cipal schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the 
persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is 
accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God 
help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my 
friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, 
and insists on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow’s head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive 
fracture with a cudgel, a fellow whom, in fact, it savors of impiety 
to attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in 
the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat School are the ministers, magistrates, and 
town-council of Edinburgh; and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to 
serve the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among 
the magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say 
with a reverend gentleman, to whom you have the honor of being very 
nearly related, and whom this country and age have had the lionor to 
produce. I need not name the historian of Charles V. 1 tell him, 
through the medium of his nephew’s infiuence, that Mr. Clark is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the 
merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is falling a 
sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence I Hated and persecuted by 
their enemies, and too often, alas I almost unexceptionably, received 
by their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise 
of cold civility and humiliating advice. Oh, to be a sturdy savage, 
stalking in the pride of his independence amid the solitary wilds of his 
deserts, rather than, in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a sub¬ 
sistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature I Every man 
has his virtues, and no man is without his failings; and curse on that 
privileged plain-dealing of friendship which in the hour of my calamity 
cannot reach forth the helping hand, without at the same time point¬ 
ing out those failings, and apportioning them their share in procuring 
my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls ye, and such 
ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you please, but do, also, 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


599 


spare my follies : the first will witness in my breast for themselves, and 
the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. 
And since deviating more or less from the paths of propriety and recti¬ 
tude must be incident to human nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my 
power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear the consequences of 
those errors ! I do not want to be independent that I may sin, but I 
want to be independent in my sinning. 

, To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let me 
recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good 
offices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit 
the other. I long much to hear from you. Adieu I—R. B. 


No. CCXXXIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[Lord Buchan had projected a fete in honor of the poet Thomson, in¬ 
cluding the opening of a temple to his memory on Ednam Hill.] 

Ellisland, 1791. 

My Lord, 

Language sinks under the ardor of my feelings when I would 
thank your lordship for the honor you have done me in inviting me to 
make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first en¬ 
thusiasm in reading the card you did me the honor to write me, I 
overlooked every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it will not 
be in my power. A week or two’s absence, in the very middle of my 
harvest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already 
made a pilgrimage up the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would 
I take the same delightful journey down the windings of that delight¬ 
ful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion ; but who would write 
after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired. I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the 
way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall 
trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am 
afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the 
task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your 
lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honor 
to be, etc.—R. B. 

[Here follows the poem, for which see page 159.] 









6oo 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCXXXIV. 

TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. 

My dear Sloan, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I hurry 
to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot 
help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to rec¬ 
ollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of information—your 
address. 

However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, 
and strength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the long¬ 
est life “ in the world’s hale and undegenerate days,” that will make 
me forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at 
times, but I will not part with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the embarras of your present situation. You 
know my favorite quotation from Young— 

-“ On Reason build Resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man.” 

And that other favorite one from Thomson’s Alfred— 

“ What proves the hero truly great 
Is, never, never, to despair.” 

Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance ? 

-“ Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing 

You may do miracles by— persevering.” 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going 
on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day, se’ennight, and sold it 
very well: a guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a 
scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the 
roup was over, about thirty people engaged in battle, every man for 
his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene 
much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk 
on the fioor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attend¬ 
ing them, that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I en¬ 
joyed the scene ; as I was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. 

Farewell! and God bless you, my dear friend !—R. B. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


6oi 


No. CCXXXV. 

TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

My Lady, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your good¬ 
ness has allowed me, of sending you anything I compose in my poet¬ 
ical way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable 
loss would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter¬ 
mined to make that the first piece I should do myself the honor of 
sending you. Had the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardor of 
my heart, the enclosed had been much more worthy your perusal: as 
it is, I beg leave to lay it at your ladyship’s feet. As all the world 
knows my obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to 
show as openly that my heart glows, and shall ever glow, with the 
most grateful sense and remembrance of his lordship’s goodness. The 
sables I did myself the honor to wear to his lordship’s memory were 
not the “ mockery of woe.” Nor shall my gratitude perish with me ! 
If, among my children, I shall have a son that has a heart, he shall 
hand it down to his child as a family honor, and a family debt, that 
my dearest existence I owe to the noble house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture 
to see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world.— 
R. B. 


No. CCXXXVI. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, 1791. 

My dear Ainslie, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can you, amid the horrors of 
penitence, regret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all the rest of the 

d-d hounds of hell that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of 

the sin of drunkenness—can you speak peace to a troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried everything that used to amuse 
me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of the clock as 
it slowly, slowly, numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, 
d—n them ! are ranked up before me, every one at his neighbor’s back¬ 
side, and every one with a burden of anguish on his back, to pour on 
my devoted head—and there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me, 
my business torments me, and my sins come staring me in the face, 
every one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. When I tell you 
even . , . has lost its power to please, you will guess something of my 







6o2 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


hell within, and all around me. 1 began “ Elibanks and Elibraes,” 
but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and unfinished from my listless tongue : 
at last I luckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay 
by me, in my bookcase, and I felt something, for the first time since I 

opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence.-Well—1 begin to breathe 

a little, since I began to write to you. How are you, and what are 
you doing ? How goes law ? Apropos, for connection’s sake do not 
address to me supervisor, for that is an honor I cannot pretend to : I 
am on the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by 
and by to act as one ; but at present I am a simple gauger, tho’ t’other 
day I got an appointment to an Excise division of 2bL per annum 
better than the rest. My present income, down money, is IQl. per 
annum. 

I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to 
know. R. B. 

No. CCXXXVII. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic 
purity of your youthful mind can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners: I mean a 
torpitude of the moral powers, that may be called a lethargy of con¬ 
science. Ill’vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her 
snakes: beneath the deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out 
the rigors of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, 
Madam, could have made me so long neglect your obliging commands. 
Indeed, I had one apology—the bagatelle was not worth presenting. 
Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies’s fate and welfare in 
the serious business of life, amid its chances and changes, that to make 
her the subject of a silly ballad is downright mockery of these ardent 
feelings ; ’tis like an impertinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious heaven ! why this disparity between our wishes and our 
powers ? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest impo¬ 
tent and ineffectual, as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless 
desert ? In my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom 
how gladly would I have said: “Go, be happy! 1 know that your 
hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom accident 
has placed above you—or, worse still, in whose hands are, perhaps, 
placed many of the comforts of your life. But there! ascend that 
rock. Independence, and look justly down on their littleness of soul. 
Make the worthless tremble imder your indignation, and the foolish 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


603 


sink before your contempt; and largely impart that happiness to others, 
which I am certain will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow.” 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and 
find it all a dream ? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find 
myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye 
of pity, or of adding one comfort to the friend I love ? Out upon the 
world, say I, that its affairs are administered so ill! They talk of 
reform : good Heaven ! what a reform would I make among the sons, 
and even the daughters, of men ! Down, immediately, should go fools 
from the high places where misbegotten chance has perked them up, 
and through life should they skulk, ever haunted by their native in¬ 
significance, as the body marches accompanied by its shadow. As for 
a much more formidable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do 
with them : had I a world, there should not be a knave in it. 

But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill; and I would 
pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive and generously 
love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are among men comparatively tolerable ; 
but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in 
which we can place lovely woman, that are grated and shocked at the 
rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of 
life: let there be slight degrees of precedency among them—but let 
them be all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
I am not accountable ; it is an original component feature of my mind. 

R. B. 


No. CCXXXVIII. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[Burns had been to Edinburgh at the end of November and beginning 
of December, and had there seen Mrs. M‘Lehose. She had resolved to 
go to her worthless but repentant husband in Jamaica, and sailed in 
February, 1792.] 

I HAVE received both your last letters. Madam, and ought and would 
have answered the first long ago. But on what subject shall I write 
you ? How can you expect a correspondent should write you when 
you declare that you mean to preserve his letters, with a view, sooner 
or later, to expose them in the pillory of derision and the rock of 
criticism ? This is gagging me completely as to speaking the senti¬ 
ments of my bosom ; else. Madam, I could perhaps too truly 
“ Join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine I ” 

1 have perused your most beautiful but most pathetic poem ; do not 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


t )04 


ask me how often, or with what emotions. You know that “ I dare to 
sin, but not to Zie.” Your verses wring the confession from my inmost 
soul, that—I will say it, expose it if you please—that I have more than 
once in my life been the victim of a damning conjuncture of circum¬ 
stances ; and that to see you must be ever— 

“ Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes.” 

I have just, since I had yours, composed the following stanzas. Let 
me know your opinion of them. 

[Here are transcribed the lines beginning, “Sweet Sensibility, how 
charming,” etc.] 


No. CCXXXIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Enclosing the “ Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots,” Burns wrote as 
follows:—] 

Leadhills, Thursday Noon [Dec. 11, 1791]. 

Such, my dearest Clarinda, were the words of the amiable but un¬ 
fortunate Mary. Misfortune seems to take a peculiar pleasure in dart¬ 
ing her arrows against “ honest men and bonny lasses.” Of this you 
are too, too just a proof ; but may your future be a bright exception 
to the remark. In the words of Hamlet— 

“ Adieu, adieu, adieu I Remember me.” 

Sylvander 


No. CCXL. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Dumfries [15Z/i December, (?) 1791]. 

1 HAVE some merit, my ever dearest of women, in attracting and 
securing the honest heart of Clarinda. In her I meet with the most 
accomplished of all womankind, the first of all God’s works, and yet 
I, even I, have the good fortune to appear amiable in her sight. 

By the bye, this is the sixth letter that I have written since I left 
you; and if you were an ordinary being, as you are a creature very 
extraordinary—an instance of what God Almighty, in the plenitude 
of His power and the fulness of His goodness can make!—I would 
never forgive you for not answering my letters. 

I have sent your hair, a part of the parcel you gave me, with a 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 605 


measure, to Mr. Brice, the jeweler, to get a ring done f^or me. I have 
likewise sent in the verses “ On Sensibility,” altered to— 

“ Sensibility, how charming, 

Dearest Nancy, thou can tell,” etc,, 

to the editor of “ Scots Songs,” of which you have three volumes, to 
set to a most beautiful air—out of compliment to the first of women, 
my ever-beloved, my ever-sacred Clarinda. I shall probably write you 
to-morrow. In the meantime, from a man who is literally drunk ac¬ 
cept and forgive I—R. B. 


No. CCXLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \1th December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good news respecting the 
little floweret and the mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their 
fullest extent; and then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in everything but his abridged 
existence. 

1 Have just finished the following song, which to a lady, the descend¬ 
ant of Wallace, and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, and her¬ 
self the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology :— 

“ Scene—A Field of Battle. Time of the Day—Evening. The wounded and dying of 
the victorious army are supposed to join in the following 

Song op Death. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 
Now gay with the broad setting sun : 

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties— 

Onrrace of existence is run I ”—etc. 

The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was, looking 
over with a musical friend McDonald’s collection of Highland airs, I 
was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled “ Oran an Aoig ; 
or, the Song'of Death,” to the measure of which I have adapted my 
stanzas. I have of late composed two or three other little pieces, 
which, ere yon full-orbed moon, whose broad impudent face now stares 
at old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, 
just peeping forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribe for 
you. A Dieuje vous commende. —R. B. 





6 o6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCXLII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

PRINTER. 

[This letter introduces Mrs. Riddel to Smellie, the self-taught scholar 
and naturalist.] 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 

I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady to you, and a lady 
in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to you—who care no 
more for the herd of animals called young ladies, than you do for the 
lierd of animals called young gentlemen. To you—who despise and 
detest the groupings and combinations of Fashion, as an idiot painter 
that seems industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves 
in the foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are 
too often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take 
this letter to town with her, and send it to you, is a character that, 
even in your own way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an 
acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady too, is a votary to the 
Muses; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I 
assure you that her verses, always correct and often elegant, are much 
beyond the common run of the lady poetesses of the day. She is a great 
admirer of your book ; and, hearing me say that I was acquainted with 
you, she begged to be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first 
visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was, to 
desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have 
you at his house while she was there ; and lest you might think of a 
lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often de¬ 
serve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. 
To be impartial, however, in appreciating the lady’s merits, she has 
one unlucky failing; a failing which you will easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased in indulging in it, and a failing that you will par¬ 
don, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself:—where she dis¬ 
likes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it than where 
she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the season, 
but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that 
Fortune may never throw your subsistence to the mercy of a knave, or 
set your character on the judgment of a fool; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall 
say. Here lies a man who did honor to science, and men of worth 
shall say, Here lies a man who did honor to human nature.—R. B. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


607 


No. CCXLIII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Dumfries, Uh Feb., 1792. 

My dear Friend, 

I send you by the bearer, Mr. Clarke, a particular friend of mine, 
six pounds and a shilling, which you will dispose of as followsfive 
pounds ten shillings, per account, I owe Mr. R. Burn, architect, for 
erecting the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson. He was two 
years in erecting it after I had commissioned him for it, and I have 
been two years in paying him after he sent me his account; so he and 
I are quits. He had the hardiesse to ask the interest on the sum ; but 
considering that the money was due by One poet for putting a tomb¬ 
stone over another, he may, with grateful surprise, thank Heaven that 
he ever saw a farthing of it. 

With the remainder of the money pay yourself for the “Office of a 
Messenger” that I bought of you ; and send me by Mr. Clarke a note of 
its price. Send me likewise the fifth vol. of the “ Observer ” by Mr, 
Clarke ; and if any money remains, let it stand to account. 

I sent you a maukin [hare] by last week’s fly, which I hope you 
received.—R. B. 


No. CCXLIV. 


TO MR. W. NICOL. 


[This is an ironical reply to a letter containing (according to Dr. 
Currie) good advice.] 


20^^ February. 


O Thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full 
moon of discretion, and chief of many counselors I How infinitely is 
thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave 
indebted to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an 
erring wretch, of whom the zigzag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units up to the hidden mys¬ 
teries of fluxions ! May one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright 
as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
le.ss unworthy of the face and favor of that father of proverbs and 
master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and magnet among sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicol I Amen I Amen 1 Yea, so be it I 






6 o8 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


For me, I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! From the cave 
of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes 
of my political heresies, I look up to thee', as doth a toad through the 
iron-barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon to the cloudless glory of 
a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall 
my name be the quotation of the wise, and my countenance be the de¬ 
light of the godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan’s many hills? 
As for him, his works are perfect; never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his 
dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elflne lamp of my glimmerous 
understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers? As for thee, thy 
thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed 
breath of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute 
the sacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires: 
never did the vapors of impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy 
cerulean imagination. O that like thine were the tenor of my life, 
like thine the tenor of my conversation ! Then should no friend fear 
for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weakness. Then should I lie 
down and rise up, and none to make me afraid. May thy pity and thy 
prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of moralityl 
thy devoted slave.—R. B. 


No. CCXLV. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

Dxjmfries, 1792. 
Sir, 

^ I believe among all our Scots literati you have not met with Pro¬ 
fessor Dugald Stewart, who fills the Moral Philosophy chair in the 
University of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man of the first parts, 
and, what is more, a man of the first worth, to a gentleman of your 
general acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the luxury of unen¬ 
cumbered freedom and undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps recommen¬ 
dation enough : but when I inform you that Mr. Stewart’s principal 
characteristic is your favorite feature—sterling independence of 
mind which, though every man’s right, so few men have the courage 
to claim, and fewer still the magnanimity to support; when 1 tell you, 
that unseduced by splendor, and undisgusted by wretchedness, he ap¬ 
preciates the merits of the various actors in the great drama of life 
merely as they perform their parts in short, he is a man after your 
own heart, and I comply with his earnest request in letting you know 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


609 


that he wishes above all things to meet with you. His house, Catrine, 
is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which you proposed visiting; 
or if you could transmit him the enclosed, he would, with the greatest 
pleasure, meet you anywhere in the neighborhood. I write to Ayrshire 
to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my promise. 
Should your time and spirits permit your meeting with Mr. Stewart, 
’tis well; if not, 1 hope you will forgive this liberty : and I have at least 
an opportunity of assuring you with what truth and respect, 

1 am. Sir, 

Your great Admirer 

And very humble Servant, 

R. B.A 


No. CCXLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it. Madam ; my own conscience, hackneyed 
and weather-beaten as it is in watching and reproving my vagaries, 
follies, indolence, etc., has continued to punish me sufficiently. . . . 

Do you think it possible, my dear and honored friend, that I could be 
so lost to gratitude for many favors, to esteem for much worth, and to 
the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaintance, and I hope 
and 1 am sure of progressive, increasing friendship, as for a single day 
not to think of you, to ask the Fates what they are doing and about 
to do with my much-loved friend and her wide-scattered connections, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly 
can? 

Apropos (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to explain), do 
you know that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ?— 
Almost I said 1 ?—I am in love ; souse ! over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean : but the word Love, 
owing to the intermingledoms of the good and the bad, the pure and 
the impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for express¬ 
ing one’s sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred 
purity of my attachment. Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; 
the distant, humble approach; the delight we should have in gazing 
upon and listening to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the un¬ 
spotted purity of his celestial home among the coarse, polluted, far 
inferior sons of men, to deliver, to them tidings that make their hearts 
swim in joy and their imaginations soar in transport—such,so delight- 

* Another letter to Capt. Grose, giving the legends of Alloway Kirk, will be found 
in the notes to the poena. 





6 io 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


ing and so pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day 

with Miss Lesley Baillie, your neighbor, at M-. Mr. B. with his two 

daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries a 
few days ago, on their way to England, did me the honor of calling on 
me ; on which I took my horse (though God knows 1 could ill spare the 
time), and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
spent the day with them. ’Twas about nine, I think, when I left them, 
and, riding home, I composed the following ballad, of which you will 
probably think you have a dear bargain, as it will cost you another 
groat of postage. You must know that there is an old ballad beginning 
with— 

“ My bonnie Lizie Baillie, 

I’ll rowe thee in my plaidie,”—etc. 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, “ unanointed, 
unanneal’d,” as Hamlet says:— 

“ O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed o’er the border ? 

She’s gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther.” 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, 
as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this 
curse, that two or three people, who would be the happier the oftener 
they met together, are, almost without exception, always so placed as 
never to meet but once or twice a year ; which, considering the few 
years of a man’s life, is a very great “ evil under the sun,” which I do 
not recollect that Solomon has mentioned in his catalogue of the mis¬ 
eries of man. I hope and believe that there is a state of existence beyond 
the grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former inti¬ 
macies, with this endearing addition, that “ we meet to part no more ! ” 

“ Tell us, ye dead ; 

Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 

What ’tis you are and we must shortly be ? ” 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of 
men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
“ O that some courteous ghost would blab it out I ” but it cannot be ; 
you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves, and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in the 
doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, 
but also by making us happier men, that I should take every care that 
your little godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, 
shall be taught them. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


6 ll 


So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the 
world, in the intervals of my labor of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua.—R. B. 


No. CCXLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, mh September, 1792. 

No 1 I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of business, 
grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the Excise, making ballads, and then drinking, and singing 
them ; and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
different publications; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to 
dedicate to one of the first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might 
have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour near “ witching time of 
night,” and scrawled a page or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage; or I might have thanked the Caledonian 
archers for the honor they have done me (though, to do myself jus¬ 
tice, I intended to have done both in rhyme; else I had done both 
long ere now). Well, then, here is to your good health I for you must 
know I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep 
away the meikle-horned Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? “ The voice said. Cry,” and I said, 
“ What shall I cry ? ” O thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever 
thou makest thyself visible!—be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an 
auld thorn, in the dreary glen through which the herd-callan maun 
bicker in his gloamin’ route frae the faulde !—Be thou a brownie, set, 
at dead of night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary 
barn, where the repercussions of thy iron flail half affright thyself, as 
thou performest the work of twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock- 
crowing summon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose !—Be thou 
a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy 
laughing yell with the howling of the storm and the roaring of the 
flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man on the foundering 
horse, or in the tumbling boat!—Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy 
nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gi'andeur ; or perform¬ 
ing thy mystic rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the 
dead around thee ; or, taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain or 
the murderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy pictures dreadful as the 
horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity t— 
Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms; come with the milder. 







6i2 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


gentle, easy inspirations which thou breathest round the wing of a 
prating advocate, or the teteot a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues 
run at the light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver forever and ever; come 
and assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half 
an idea among half a hundred words, to fill up four quarto pages, while 
he has not got one single sentence of recollection, information, or re¬ 
mark worth putting pen to paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance ! Circled in the 
embrace of my elbow chair, my breast labors, like the bloated Sibyl on 
her three-footed stool, and, like her too, labors with Nonsense.—Non¬ 
sense, auspicious name 1 Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic 
mazes of law, the cadaverous paths of physic, and particularly in the 
sightless soarings of school divinity ; who—leaving Common Sense 
confounded at his strength of pinion. Reason delirious with eying his 
giddy flight, and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her well, 
cursing the hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance to the 
wizard power of Theologic Vision—raves abroad on all the winds : “ On 
earth Discord ! a gloomy heaven above, opening her jealous gates to 
the nineteen-thousandth part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an 
inescapable and inexorable hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the 
vast residue of mortals I! ! ” O doctrine comfortable and healing to 
the weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, 
ye pauvres misirables, to whom day brings no pleasure, and night 
yields no rest, be comforted ! “ ’Tis but one to nineteen hundred thou¬ 

sand that your situation will mend in this world.” So, alas! the ex¬ 
perience of the poor and needy too often affirms; and ’tis nineteen 
hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of . . ., that you will be 
damned eternally in the world to come! 

But, of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical; so 
enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, or 
can you, tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of the 
mind has always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They 
are orderly ; they may be just; nay, I have known them merciful; but 
still your children of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures wfith 
a nostril snuffing putrescence and a foot spurning filth,—in short, with 
a conceited dignity that your titled ... or any other of your Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries’ standing display, when they accidentally 
mix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in 
my ploughboy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord 
could be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave. How ignorant are 
ploughboys 1 Nay, I have since discovered that a godly woman may be 
a .!—But hold—Here’s t’ye again—this rum is generous An¬ 

tigua ; so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


613 


Apropos y how do you like— I mean really like—the married life ? 
Ah, my friend, matrimony is quite a different thing from what your 
love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to be I But marriage, we are 
told, is appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of His 
institutions. 1 am a husband of older standing than you, and shall give 
yoamy ideas of the conjugal state (e?i passant —you know I am no Lat¬ 
inist—is not conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke ? ). Well, then, the 
scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts:—Good-nature, four; 
Good Sense, two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, elo¬ 
quent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, 
but that is so soon spoilt, you know), all these, one; as for the other 
qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as Fortune, Con- 
nectons, Education (I mean education extraordinary). Family Blood, 
etc., divide the two remaining degrees among them as you please ; only 
remember that all these minor properties must be expressed by frac- 
tions, for there is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled 
to the dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries—how I lately met with 
Miss Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world— 
how I accompanied her and her father’s family fifteen miles on their 
journey, out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of 
God in such an unequaled display of them—how, in galloping home at 
night, 1 made a ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make a part— 

Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o’ men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scathe 
Whatever wad belang thee ! 

He’d look into thy bonnie face 
And say, “ I canna wrang thee.” 

—behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imagina¬ 
tions, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed bosom-companion, be given 
the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things 
brought forth by the moon, and the benignest influences of the stars, 
and the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by 
the tree of life, forever and ever I Amen.—R. B. 

No. CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. G. THOMSON. 

[In the autumn of 1793 Mr. G. Thompson of Edinburgh planned “ A 





6 i 4 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


select Collection of original Scottish Airs; to which are added Sym¬ 
phonies and Accompaniments by Pleyel and Kozeluck, with charac¬ 
teristic Verses by the most esteemed Scottish Poets ; ” and as Burns was 
the only poet of that period worthy of the name, he was instantly ap¬ 
plied to, to furnish verses to some airs which were not already supplied 
with any, or at least with satisfactory, words.] 

Dumfries, IWiSept., 1792. 

Sir, 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make 
to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I 
have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm, 
Only don’t hurry me : ‘‘Deil tak’ the hindmost” is by no means the 
cri de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you 
in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, 
and, since you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assist¬ 
ance—will you let me have a list of your airs, with the first line of the 
printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an opportunity of 
suggesting any alteration that may occur to me ? You know ’tis in the 
way of my trade ; still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of 
publishers to approve or reject, at your pleasure, for your own publica¬ 
tion. Apropos^ if you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an 
end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the 
pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed 
at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, particularly 
the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible, 
“Tweedside”—“Ah, the poor shepherd’s mournful fate!”—“Ah, 
Chloris I could I now but sit,” etc., you cannot mend ; but such insipid 
stuff as “To Fanny fair could I impart,” etc., usually set to “The 
Mill, Mill, O! ” is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already 
appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the 
very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecu¬ 
tion of the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amend¬ 
ments ;— I say amendments ; for I will not alter except where 1 my¬ 
self, at least, think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or be¬ 
low price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk 
of money, wages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright prostitution of soul! 
A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as 
a favor. In the rustic phrase of the season, “ Glide speed the wark! ” 

1 am, Sir, 

Your very humble Servant, 

R. Burns. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


615 


No. CCXLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Mrs. Henri, Mrs. Dunlop’s widowed daughter, had gone to France 
to introdiice her boy to his father’s family, and found herself in the 
midst of the terrible convulsion of the great Revolution.] 

Dumfries, 2ith September, 1793. 

I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours of the 83d. All your 
other kind reproaches, your news, etc., are out of my head when I 
read and think on Mrs. Henri’s situation. Good God ! a heart-wounded, 
helpless young woman in a strange, foreign land, and that land con¬ 
vulsed with every horror that can harrow the human feelings—sick— 
looking, longing for a comforter, but finding none—a mother’s feelings, 
too ;—but it is too much : He who wounded (He only can), may He 
heal ! . . . 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family. . . . 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. ‘ Tis, as a 
farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird 
farming his own property ; sowing his own corn in hope, and reaping 
it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can say 
unto him, “ What dost thou ? ” fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks ; 
rejoicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be 
the venerated, gray-haired leader of a- little tribe—’tis a heavenly life I 
but devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make 
my Ayrsliire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. B. until her nine months’ race is 
run, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. She, too, seems 
determined to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if 
Heaven will be so obliging as to let me have them in the proportion of 
three boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if 
I am spared with them, to show a set of boys that will do honor to my 
cares and name; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. 1 
Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, 
your little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely mastered his brother. 
Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a 
most surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know, how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to our 
heart ; you can excuse it. God bless you and yours !—R. B. 

* The child proved to be a girl, born 21st November : she was named Elizabeth Riddel. 







6 i6 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCL. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Friday Night. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy’s ballad, “O 
Nancy, wilt thou go with me?” to the air, “ Nannie, O ! ” is just. It is, 
besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language. But 
let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish 
airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the 
Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native 
tongue and manners is particularly, nay peculiarly, apposite. For this 
reason, and, upon my honor, for this reason alone, I am of opinion 
(but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve 
or reject, as you please) that my ballad of “ Nannie, O ! ” might perhaps 
do for one set of verses to the tune. Now don’t let it enter into your 
head, that you are under any necessity of taking my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own reputation in the business of 
authorship, and have nothing to be pleased or offended at in your 
adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one 
half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my “ Nannie, OI ” the name of the river is 
horribly prosaic. I will alter it:— 

“ Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.” ^ 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best 
but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business ; but 
I have just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl free of 
postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best com¬ 
ments to honest Allan, Gude be wi’ ye, etc. 


Saturday Morning. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West 
Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of “ Ewe-bughts ” ; but it will fill up this 
page. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the 
breathings of ardent passion ; and though it might have been easy in 
after times to have given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose 
they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced 

* Although after the date of this letter, during the poet’s life, two editions of his 
poems were published (1793 and 1794) the name of the river remained unaltered. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 617 


the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. 
I Their uncouth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. 

[Here are inserted the verses “Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary.” 
Page 310.J 


No. CCLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Supposed to have been written on the death of Mrs. Henri, her 
daughter.] 


[October, 1792.J 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive your letter until my 
return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much¬ 
valued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with you ; consolation 
I have none to offer, except that which religion holds out to the children 
of affliction. Children of affliction .'—how just the expression ! and 
like every other family, they have matters among them which they 
hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of which the 
world has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indif¬ 
ferently on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel 
occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many years ? What is it but to 
drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night 
of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the stars one by one from 
the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the 
howling waste! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me 
again.—R. B. 


No. CCLII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, Qth December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; and, if at all possible, 1 
shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting 
at Dunlop House. 

Alas, Madam I how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have 
reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness! I have 
not passed half the ordinary term of an old man’s life, and yet I 
scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper that I do not see some 
names that I have known, and which 1, and other acquaintances, little 






6 i8 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the 
mortality of our kind makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful 
abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehension for our own fate. 
But of how different an importance are the lives of different in¬ 
dividuals ! Nay, of what importance is one period of the same life, 
more than another! A few years ago I could have laid down in 
the dust, “careless of the voice of the morning”; and now not 
a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing me 
and my exertions, lose both their “ staff and shield.” By the way, 
these helpless ones have lately got an addition ; Mrs. B. having given 
me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in 
Thomson’s “ Edward and Eleanora ” :— 

“ The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 

Or what need he regard his single woes ? ’’—etc. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from 
the same piece, peculiarly—alas! too peculiarly—apposite, my dear 
Madam, your present frame of mind 

“ Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o’er the summer main ? the tempest comes ; 

The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting.—Heavens 1 if privileged from trial 
How cheap a thing were virtue 1 ” 

I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson’s dramas. 
I pick up favorite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready 
armor, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent ex¬ 
istence. Of these is one, a very favorite one, from his “ Alfred ” :— 

“ Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.” 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you formerly, as indeed, 
when I write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. 
The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much 
more bounded than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the 
former are extremely apt to run into one another ; but in return for 
the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I 
must still give you another quotation, which I am almost sure I have 
given you before, but I cannot resist the temptation. The subject is re¬ 
ligion ; speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says, 


“’Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright.” 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


619 


I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e’en scribble out t’other 
sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the reforming, 
or rather the republican, spirit of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, 
we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, 
you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so 
much as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find 
out without an interpreter. . . . 

I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress’s 
benefit-night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, 
called “ The Rights of Woman ” :— 

“ While Europe’s eye is fixed on mighty things.” {Page 178.) 

I shall have the honor of receiving your criticisms in person at 
Dunlop.—R. B. 

No. CCLIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 


November 8th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall 
be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in 
the undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus 
in many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, that 
cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. 
For instance, in the air, “ My wife’s a wanton wee thing,” if a few 
lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. 
The following were made extempore to it, and though, on further 
study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not 
suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink :— 

“ The Winsome Wee Thing.” Page 248. 

No. CCLIV. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Hth November, 1792. 

My Dear Sir, 

I agree with you that the song, “ Katherine Ogie,” is very poor 
stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to mend it, but the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often in 
the rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the 
piece. The foregoing song, [“ Highland Mary,” page 226] pleases 
myself ; I think it is in my happiest manner : you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. The subject of the song is one of the most inter- 

18—Burns—A A 




620 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


esting passages of my youthful days ; and I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. 
Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart that 
throws a borrowed luster over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of “ Auld Rob Morris.” I have 
adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new 
plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as 
the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans 
cei'emonie, make what use you choose of the productions.—Adieu, 
etc.—R. B. 

No. CCLV. 

TO MISS FONTENELLE. 

[Burns was very fond of the theater, and had, as we have seen, some 
notion of trying his hand at dramatic writing. Miss Fontenelle was a 
youthful member of the company which at stated seasons visited Dum¬ 
fries, playing such parts as “ Little Pickleshe was very sprightly 
and petite in figure. ] 

Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of 
our pleasures are positively our benefactors. To you. Madam, on our 
humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment 
than ever I was in prouder theaters. Your charms as a woman would 
ensure applause to the most indifferent actress, and your theatrieal 
talents would ensure admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, 
is not the unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or the 
interested : I pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime in 
nature excites my admiration, or her beauties give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines [“The Rights of Woman : An Address”] be 
of any service to you in your approaching benefit-night ? If they will, 
I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore : 
I know they have no great merit; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of 
an opportunity to declare how much I have the honor to be, etc.—R. B. 


No. CCLVI. 
TO A LADY. 


Madam, 


IN FAVOR OF A PLAYER’S BENEFIT. 


Dumfries. 


You were so very good as to promise me to honor my friend 
with your presence on his benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


621 


first: the play a most interesting one, “ The Way to Keep Him.” I 
have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gen¬ 
erally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honor 
to patronage : he is a poor and modest man ; claims which from their 
very silence the more forcible have power on the generous heart. Alas, 
for pity ! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of 
this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch 
that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all the 
qualities we assign to the Author and Director of Nature, by far the 
most enviable is to be able “to wipe away all tears from all eyes.” 
O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnifi¬ 
cent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one 
poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam ; I came to beg, not to preach.—R. B. 

No. CCLVII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the morn¬ 
ing I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue busi¬ 
ness, and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. 
Fine employment for the poet’s pen I There is a species of human 
genius that I call the gin-house class: what enviable dogs they are! 
Round and round and round they go. Mundell’s ox, that drives his cot¬ 
ton millji is their exact prototype—without an idea or wish beyond 
their circle—fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; while here 
I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d-d melange of fretfulness and mel¬ 

ancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other 
to repose in me torpor ; my soul fiouncing and fluttering round his tene¬ 
ment like a wild-finch, caught among the horrors of winter, and newly 
thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew 
sage prophesied when he foretold : “ And, behold, on whatsoever this 
man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper! ” If my resentment is 
awakened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and if— . . . Pray 
that wisdom and bliss be the frequent visitors of—R. B. 

No. CCLVIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[Mr. Thomson, criticising the songs with the ear of a musician, ex¬ 
cuses himself for pointing out what he deems defects—“ the wren will 
oversee what has been overlooked by the eagle.”] 

1 This was a primitive cotton-mill near Dumfries. 




622 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Dumfries, Dec., 1792. 

Your alterations of my “ Nannie, O I ” are perfectly right. So are 
those of “My wife’s a winsome wee thing”: your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear Sir, with the 
freedom which characterizes our correspondence, I must not, cannot, 
alter “ Bonnie Lesley.” You are right, the word “ Alexander ” makes 
the line a little uncouth ; but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alex¬ 
ander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language 
of Scripture, that “ he went forth conquering and to conquer.” 

“ For Nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither.” (Such a person as she is.> 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than “ Ne’er made sic anither.” 
However, it is immaterial: make it either way. “ Caledonie,” 1 agree 
with you, it is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is 
sanctioned in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that 1 have 
ever tried. R. B. 


No. CCLIX. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

FINTRY. 

December, 1592. 

Sir, 

I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mitchell 
the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board 
to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person dis¬ 
affected to Government. 

Sir, you are a husband—and a father. You know what you would 
feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prat¬ 
tling little ones turned adrift in the world, degraded and disgraced from 
a situation in which they had been respectable and respected, and left 
almost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas, 
Sir ! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot I and from the 
d-mned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ! I believe, 
Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not 
tell a deliberate falsehood—no, not though even worse horrors, if worse 
can be, than those 1 have mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say, 
that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, lam 
most devoutly attached. You, Sir, have been much and generously 
my friend. Heaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


623 


how greatly I have thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made you power¬ 
ful, and me impotent; has given you patronage, and me dependence. 
I would not for my single self call on your humanity ; were such my 
insular, unconnected situation, I would despise the tear that now 
swells in my eye—I could brave misfortune, I could face ruin; for, at 
the w^orst, “ Death’s thousand doors stand open ” : but, good God ! the 
tender concerns that 1 have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see 
at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve Courage, and 
wither Resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of genius, you have 
allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my 
due : to these, Sir, permit me to appeal; by these may I adjure you to 
save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and 
which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved.—R. B. 

No. CCLX. 

TO MR. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 31s^ December, 1792. 

Dear Madam, 

A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has until 
now prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to the 
good family of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kind¬ 
ness which rendered the four days 1 spent under that genial roof four 
of the pleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend ! how few 
and fleeting are those things we call pleasures ! On my road to Ayr¬ 
shire, I spent a night with a friend whom I much valued, a man whose 
days promised to be many ; and on Saturday last we laid him in the 
dust! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your situ¬ 
ation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from 
that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free 
of my complaint. You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that 
in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but oc¬ 
casionally hard drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again 
and again bent my resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns 
I have totally abandoned : it is the private parties in the family way, 
among the hard-drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the 
mischief ; but even this I have more than half given over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least I should 
be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor for 
several years. I must wait the rotation of the list, and there are twenty 





624 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


names before mine. I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls me from my family, 
as I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some 
envious, malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political prin¬ 
ciples, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much 
in the eye of my supervisors. 1 have set, henceforth, a seal on my lips 
as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my sentiments. 
In this, as in everything else, 1 shall show the undisguised emotions of 
my soul. War I deprecate ; misery and ruin to thousands are in the 
blast that announces the destructive demon.—R. B. 

No. CCLXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

^th January, 1793. 

You see my hurried life. Madam ; I can only command starts of 
time ; however, 1 am glad of one thing; since I finished the other 
sheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. 1 
have corresponded with Commissioner Graham, for the Board has 
made me the subject of their animadversions ; and now I have the 
pleasure of informing you that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, 

as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to-But, hold ! 1 

was praying most fervently in my last sheet, and I must not so soon 
fall a-swearing in this. 

Alas! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what mis¬ 
chief they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, 
candor, benevolence, generosity, kindness—in all the charities and 
all the virtues—between one class of human beings and another. For 
instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable 
hall of Dunlop—their generous hearts, their uncontaminated, dignified 
minds, their informed and polished understandings—what a contrast, 
when compared (if such comparing were not downright sacrilege) 
with the soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the de¬ 
struction of an honest man that never offended him, and with a grin of 
satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prattling 
innocents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fellows 
dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality, produced 
my whigmeeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece 
among the descendants of William Wallace. This roused such an en¬ 
thusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it, and, by 
and by, never did your great ancestor lay a Suthron more completely 
to rest, than for a time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


625 


the season of wishing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and bless 
me, the humblest and sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet 
many returns of the season ! May all good things attend you and 
yours, wherever they are scattered over the earth I—R. B. 

No. CCLXII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

2Uh January, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie’s essay 
will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an 
appendix to the Doctor’s essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, etc., 
of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler’s anecdotes 1 have by me, 
taken down, in the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own 
mouth. I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several 
peregrinations through Scotland 1 made a pilgrimage to the individual 
spot from which every song took its rise, “ Lochaber” and the “ Braes 
of Ballenden” excepted. So far as the locality, either from the title 
of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid 
my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of 
Jacobite songs, but would it give no offense ? In the meantime, do 
not you think that some of them, particularly “ The Sow’s Tail to 
Geordie,” as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in 
your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to 
have one set of Scots words to every air, and that set of words to 
which the notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a pastoral sim¬ 
plicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which 
is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to every genuine 
Caledonian taste) with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of our 
native music, than any English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His 
“Gregory” is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in 
Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I 
intend to enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption 
indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think 
more of the ballad simplicity in it.—R. B. 

No. CCLXIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Poor Mrs. M’Lehose, finding her brutal husband’s company quite 
unbearable and her health breaking down, returned from Jamaica in 
August, 1792 ; but Burns did not know of it till some time afterwards.] 



626 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


I SUPPOSE, my dear Madam, that by your neglecting to inform me of 
your arrival in Europe—a circumstance that could not be indifferent 
to me, as indeed no occurrence relating to you can—you meant to leave 
me to guess and gather that a correspondence I once had the honor and 
felicity to enjoy is to be no more. Alas ! what heavy-laden sounds are 
these—“No more!” The wretch who has never tasted pleasure has 
never known woe ; what drives the soul to madness is the recollection 
of joys that are “ no more ! ” But this is not language to the world ; 
they do not understand it. But come, ye few—the children of feeling 
and sentiment!—ye whose trembling bosom-chords ache to unutter¬ 
able anguish as recollection gushes on the heart!—ye who are capable 
of an attachment keen as the arrows of Death, and strong as the vigor 
of immortal being—come I and your ears shall drink a tale—But hush! 

I must not, cannot, tell it; agony is in the recollection, and frenzy in 
the recital! 

But, Madam, to leave the paths that lead to madness, I congratulate' 
your friends on your return ; and I hope that the precious health, which 
Miss P. tells me is so much injured, is restored or restoring. . . . 

I present you a book ; may I hope you will accept it V 1 daresay you 
will have brought your books with you. The fourth vol. of the “ Scots 
Songs” is published. [August, 1792.] I will presume to send it you. 
Shall I hear from you? But first hear me. No cold language—no 
prudential documents : 1 despise advice and scorn control. If you are 
not to write such language, such sentiments, as you know I shall wish, 
shall delight to receive, I conjure you, by wounded pride, by ruined 
peace, by frantic disappointed passion, by all the many ills that con¬ 
stitute that sum of human woes, a broken heart!! I to me be silent for¬ 
ever. . . . R. B. 


No. CCLXIV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3d March, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time 
to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so 
completely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes’ fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating 
year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson’s songs. I dare 
say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much 
appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much-admired old 
Highland air called “ The Sutor’s Dochter ” ? It is a first-rate favorite 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


627 


of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. 
I will send it to you as it was sung with great applause in somo 
fashionable circles by Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. . . . 

There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost 
a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes me much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would 
make a very decent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it; 
will you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a 
business ? I do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds 
call it, at all; but I have invented arms for myself,—so you know I 
shall be chief of the name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise 
be entitled to supporters. These, however, I do not intend having on 
my seal. I am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secumdum artem, 
my arms. On a field azure a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a 
shepherd’s pipe and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On a 
wreath of the colors a woodlark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, 
for crest. Two mottoes: round the top of the crest, “Wood-notes 
wild” ; at the bottom of the shield, in the usual place, “ Better a wee 
bush than nae bield.” By the shepherd’s pipe and crook I do not mean 
the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a “Stock and Horn,” and a 
“ Club,” such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan’s quarto 
edition of the “Gentle Shepherd.” By the by, do you know Allan? 
He must be a man of very great genius.— Why is he not more known ? 
Has he no patrons? or do “ poverty’s cold wind and crushing rain beat 
keen and heavy ” on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance of that 
noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world ; and dear as it was 
—I mean, dear as to my pocket—I would have bought it; but I was 
told that it was printed and engraved for subscribers only. He is the 
only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear 
Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the heart 
so ? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as generous as 
the day ; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than 
any other man’s, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime 
quality to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would 
have revolted. What has led me to do this is the idea of such merit as 
Mr. Allan possesses, as such riches as a nabob or government contractor 
possesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth 
shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity 
of that merit will richly repay it.—R. B. 





628 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCLXV. 

TO MISS BENSON. 

AFTERWARDS MRS. BASIL MONTAGUE. 

Dumfries, 21s^ March, 1793. 

Madam, 

, •*' Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old 
fellows before the Flood, is this in particular, that when they met with 
anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of 
many, many happy meetings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, 
when you now and then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities 
against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none 
of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill run of 
the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the 
wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment’s repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I 
take these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the Devil. It 
is well known that he has some kind of shorthand way of taking down 
our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted 
with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson : how much I admired her 
abilities and valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought my¬ 
self in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you 
again. 

Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg 
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet; though, to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretense, that I may have the opportunity of 
declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honor to be, 
etc.-—R. B. 


No. CCLXVI. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., 


OF DALSWINTON. 


Sir, 


Dumfries, April, 1893. 


My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do 
me the honor to accept of a copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


629 


gentleman to whose goodness I have»^een much indebted; of my re¬ 
spect for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth 
the champion of the liberties of my country ; and of my veneration for 
you, as a man whose benevolence of heart does honor to human 
nature. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your dependent:' this language 
then would have been like the vile incense of flattery—I could not have 
used it. Now that connection is at an end, do me the honor to accept 
of this honest tribute of respect from. Sir, 

Your much-indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CCLXVII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

'Ith April, 1793. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how 
much this business of composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, 
etc., ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortifi¬ 
cation was Uncle Toby’s ; so I’ll e’en canter it away till I come to the 
limit of my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the 
winning-post !), and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks 
with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, “ Sae merry as we 
a’ hae been,” and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the 
last words of the voice of Coila shall be “ Good night, and joy be wi’ 
you a’! ” So much for my last words : now for a few present remarks, 
as they have occurred at random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of “ The last time I came o’er the moor,” and several 
other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion—pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay I —the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try 
to make or mend. “ For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,” is a charming 
song ; but “ Logan Burn and Logan Braes” are sweetly susceptible of 
rural imagery ; I’ll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of 
a verse in some of the old songs of “ Logan Water” (for I know a good 
many different ones), which I think pretty :— 

“ Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 

Far, far frae me and Logan braes.” 

“ My Patie is a Lover gay ” is unequal. “ His mind is never muddy” 
is a muddy expression indeed. 

“Then I’ll resign and marry Pate, 

And syne my cockernony 1 ” 

1 This was when he held the farm of Ellisland as tenant to Mr. Miller. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


630 


This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, 
“Rigs of Barley,” to the same tune, does not altogether please me; 
but if I can mend it and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, 1 will 
submit it to your consideration. “The Lass o’ Ratio’s Mill” is one of 
Ramsay’s best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in it which my 
much-valued friend Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. 
In Sir J. Sinclair’s statistical volumes are two claims—one, I think, 
from Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire—for the honor of 
this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl 
of Loudon, I can, on such authorities, believe :— 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, 
father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, 
his lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, 
still called “ Patie’s Mill,” where a bonnie lass was “tedding hay, bare¬ 
headed, on the green.” My lord observed to Allan that it would be a 
fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, 
he composed the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. 

“ One Day I heard Mary say ” is a fine song ; but, for consistency’s 
sake, alter the name “ Adonis.” Were there ever such banns published 
as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary ? I agree with you 
that my song, “ There’s nought but Care on every Hand,” is much supe¬ 
rior to “ Poortith cauld.” The original song, “ The Mill, Mill, O ! ” 
though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like 
the title, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let 
your chosen song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. 
“The banks of the Dee” is, you know, literally “ Langolee,” to slow 
time. The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it; 
for instance, 

“ And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree.” 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from 
a tree ; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen, or 
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in 
Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I 
could hit on another stanza equal to “ The small birds rejoice,” etc., I 
do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. “John An¬ 
derson my Jo,” the song to this tune in Johnson’s “ Museum,” is my 
composition, and I think it not my worst: if it suits you, take it and 
welcome. Your collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my 
opinion, very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are 
“Tullochgorum,” “Lumpso’ Puddin’,” “Tibbie Fowler,” and several 
others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of preserva- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


631 


tion ? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the “ Museum,” 
which never was known out of the immediate neighborhood until I 
got it taken down from a country girl’s singing. It is called 
“Craigieburn Wood ” ; and, in the opinion of Mr. Clark, is one of the 
sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; and I 
would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they 
are certainly Irish. “Shepherds, I have lost my love!” is to me a 
heavenly air. What would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? 
I have made one to it [“ The Govvden Locks of Anna”] a good while 
ago, but in its original state it is not quite a lady’s song. I enclose an 
altered, not amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, 
and let the Irish verses follow.—R. B. 

No. CCLXVIII. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ., 

OF MAR. 

[Mr. Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, had written to Mr. Riddel, 
offering to head a public subscription for Burns, under the impression 
that he had been dismissed from the Excise for his political opinions.] 

Dumfries, \Uh April, 1793. 
Sir 

’Degenerate as human nature is said to be ; and, in many instances, 
worthless and unprincipled as it is ; still there are bright examples to 
the contrary—examples that even in the eyes of superior beings must 
shed a luster on the name of Man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when you. Sir, came for¬ 
ward to patronize and befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely 
because poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of 
mind had provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much- 
esteemed friend, Mr. Riddle of Glenriddel has just read me a paragraph 
of a letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of grati¬ 
tude ; for words would but mock the emotions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the 
Excise ; I am still in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a 
gentleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gen¬ 
tleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, with¬ 
out so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been 
turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. 
Had I had any other resource, probably I might have saved them the 



632 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


trouble of a dismission; but the little money I gained by my publica¬ 
tion is almost every guinea embarked to save from ruin an only brother, 
who, though one of the worthiest, is by no means one of the most for¬ 
tunate, of men. 

In my defense to their accusations I said, that whatever might be 
my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I abjured 
the idea: that a constitution, which, in its original principles expe¬ 
rience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it 
would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory : that, in 
consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, 
immediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking 
any active part, either personally or as an author, in the present 
business of Reform : but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I 
would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the Legislature, which boded no 
good to our glorious constitution, and which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. Some such sentiments as these I stated in 
a letter to my generous patron Mr. Graham, which he laid before the 
Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark gave great offense ; 
and one of our supervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to 
inquire on the spot, and to document me—“ that my business was to 
act, not to think; and that whatever might be men or measures, it 
was for me to be silerit and obedient^ 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; so, between Mr. Graham 
and him, I have been partly forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes 
of my getting officially forward are blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest 
you. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the poet 
I have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will 
be found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a 
wife and family have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I 
was, the only eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still 
my honest fame is my dearest concern : and a thousand times have I 
trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets that malice or misrep¬ 
resentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting antici¬ 
pation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy 
malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs: 
“ Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found 
in his works, and after having been held forth to public view and to 
public estimation as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of re¬ 
sources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled 
into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


633 


existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind.” 

In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and 
defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from 
birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but—2 will say it I—the sterling 
of his honest worth no poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind oppression might bend, but could not subdue. Have not 
I, to me, a more precious stake in my country’s welfare than the rich¬ 
est dukedom in it ? I have a large family of children, and the prospect 
of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. Can I 
look tamely on, and see any machination to wrest from them the birth¬ 
right of my boys—the little independent Britons, in whose veins runs 
my own blood? No I I will not I should my heart’s blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it I 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service ; and 
that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the con¬ 
cern of a nation ? 

1 can tell him, that it is on such individuals as I that a nation has to 
rest, both for the hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. The 
uninformed mob may swell a nation’s bulk; and the titled, tinsel, 
courtly throng may be its feathered ornament; but the number of 
those who are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low 
enough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court—these are a 
nation’s strength. 

I know not how to apologize for the impertinent length of this epistle ; 
but one small request I must ask of you farther.—When you have 
honored this letter with a perusal, please commit it to the flames. 
Burns, in whose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I 
have here, in his native colors, drawn as he is; but should any of the 
people in whose hands is the very bread he eats get the least knowledge 
of the picture, it would ruin the poor Bard forever! 

My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to 
present you with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 
gratitude with which 1 have the honor to be, Sir, 

Your deeply indebted 

And ever devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


My Lord, 


No. CCLXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF GLEN CAIRN. 

[May, 1794 ?] 


When you oast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, 



^34 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


and on the title-page of the book [a new edition of the poemsj 1 do my¬ 
self the honor to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than 
my vanity tells me that it must be a name not entirely unknown to 
you. The generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me 
in the lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality 
of my country ; and to him 1 owe all. My sense of his goodness, and 
the anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, 
I have endeavored to express in a poem to his memory, which 1 have 
now published. This edition is just from the press ; and in my grati¬ 
tude to the dead, and my respect for the living (fame belies you, my 
lord, if you possess not the same dignity of man which was your noble 
brother’s characteristic feature), 1 had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Glencairn. 1 learnt just now that you are in town :—allow me to 
present it to you. 

1 know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades 
the world of letters, with professions of respect from an author, partic¬ 
ularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim my 
by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honors of your lordship’s name, 
and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine, with the uprightness of an 
honest man 1 come before your lordship, with an offering—however 
humble, ’tis all 1 have to give—of my grateful respect; and to beg 
of you, my lord—’tis all 1 have to ask of you—that you will do me the 
honor to accept of it. 

I have the honor to be, 

R. B. 


No. CCLXX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 


April, 1793. 

. . . Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in 
which it is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know 
something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point you are 
a complete judge ; but there is a quality more necessary than either in 
a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad ; 1 mean simplicity : 
now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice 
to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has r ot been always equally happy in 
his pieces : still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author 
as Mr. W. proposes doing with “The last time I came o’er the moor.” 
Let a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into 
a piece of his own ; but to mangle the works of the poor bard whose 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


635 


tuneful tongue is now mute forever, in the dark and narrow house— 
by Heaven, ’twould be sacrilege ! I grant that Mr. W.’s version is an 
improvement; but—I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much—let 
him mend the song as the Highlander mended his gun : he gave it a 
new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that 
can be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in “ The Lass o’ 
Patie’s Mill ” must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. 
I am not sure if we can take the same liberty with “ Corn Rigs are 
bonnie ” ; perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for 
it. “ Cauld Kail in Aberdeen ” you must leave with me yet a while. 
I have vowed to have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted 
to celebrate in the verses, “ Poortith cauld and restless love.” At any 
rate, my other song, “ Green grow the Rashes,” will never suit. That 
song is current in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry old 
tune of that name ; which, of course, would mar the progress of your 
song to celebrity. Your book will be the standard of Scots songs for 
the future : let this idea ever keep your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit “ Bonnie 
Dundee.” I send you also a ballad to the “ Mill, Mill, O ! ” 

“ The last time I came o’er the moor ” I would fain attempt to make 
a Scots song for, and let Ramsay’s be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come 
by Dumfries ? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me which I have 
picked up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. They please 
me vastly ; but your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with 
the very feature for which I like them. I call them simple ; you would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air, called “ Jackie Hume’s 
Lament ? ” I have a song of considerable merit to that air. I’ll en¬ 
close you both the song and tune, as I had them ready to send to John¬ 
son’s “ Museum.” I send you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, 
which I had taken down from mvd voce.—Adieu!—R. B. 

No. CCLXXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

. . . One hint let me give you. Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him 
not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs—I mean in the song de¬ 
partment—but let our national music preserve its native features. 
They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern 
rules ; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps depends a great part of 
their effect. 



636 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCLXXII. 

4 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

ApHl 26, 1793. 

I AM damnably out of humor, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reason 
why I take up the pen to you : ’tis the nearest way (probatum est) to 
recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was much entertained with it; but I will not 
at this time, nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a letter ? I 
never could answer a letter in my life ! I have written many a letter in 
return for letters I have received ; but then they were original mat¬ 
ter—spurt-away ! zig, here ; zag, there ; as if the devil that, my grannie 
(an old woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o’-wisp, or in her 
more classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking over my elbow.—Happy 
thought that idea has engendered in my head: Spunkie, thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol, signature, and tutelary genius ! Like thee, 
hap-ste-and-lowp, here-awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, 
hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up-tails-a’-by-the-light-o’- 
the-moon, has been, is, and shall be, my progress through the mosses 
and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness of a life of ours. 

Come, then, my guardian spirit! like thee, may I skip away, amus¬ 
ing myself by and at my own light; and if any opaque-souled lubber 
of mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, glimmerous wanderings 
have misled his stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the 
thick-headed Blunderbuss recollect, that he is not Spunkie ; that 

Spunkie’s wanderings could not copied be; 

Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 

I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught, as a Scotsman 
catches the itch—by friction. How else can you account for it, that 
born blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, grow so wise that 
even they themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their 
own parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that degree, that in a 
knot of country folks who had a library amongst them, and who, to 
the honor of their good sense, made me factotum in the business, one 
of our members,—a little, wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body 
of a tailor,—I advised him, instead of turning over the leaves, to bind! 
the book on his back. Johnnie took the hint; and as our meetings were 
every fourth Saturday, and, Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to 
walk in coming, and, of course, another in returning. Bodkin was sure 
to lay his hand on some heavy quarto, or ponderous folio, with and 
under which, wrapt up in his gray plaid, he grew wise, as he grew 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


637 


weary, all the way home. He carr.ed this so far, that an old musty 
Hebrew concordance, which he had in a present from a neighboring 
priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering plaster, 
between his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, acquired as 
much rational theology, as the said priest had done by forty years’ pe¬ 
rusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory. 

Yours, 

Spunkie, 


No. CCLXXIII. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

[In a letter to Peter Hill about this time Burns also bewails the con¬ 
dition of the country : “ O may the wrath and curse of all mankind 
haunt and harass these turbulent, unprincipled miscreants who have 
involved a people in this ruinous business! ”] 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am 
much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will 
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among 
ballads. My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling: but the 
total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seem¬ 
ing inattention to your last commands. . . . 

No. CCLXXIV. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

June 25th, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with in¬ 
dignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the 
wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? 
In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of “ Logan Waters,” 
and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired 
at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country’s ruin. If I have done 
anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, com¬ 
posed in three-quarters of an hour’s meditation in my elbow-chair, 
ought to have some merit. 

[Here follows “ Logan Water.”] 





638 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCLXXV. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

[Mr. Thomson had sent Burns £5, as an instalment of remuneration 
for his songs.J 

July, 1793. 

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary 
parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
savor of affectation; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and 
creditor kind, I swear, by that honor which crowns the upright stature 
of Robert Burns’s integrity, on the least motion of it I will indignantly 
spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence en¬ 
tire stranger to you! Burns’s character for generosity of sentiment 
and independence of mind will, 1 trust, long outlive any of his wants, 
which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that 
such a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes be¬ 
hold in any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only your partiality to me has made you say 
too much : however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the 
songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you ; so 1 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

“ The Flowers o’ the Forest ” is charming as a poem, and should be, 
and must be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

“ I hae seen the smiling o’ fortune beguiling,” 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, 
who is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place ; but from 
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is— 

“ O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting f 
Why, why torment us—poor sons of a day ? ” 

The old ballad, “ I wish I were where Helen lies,” is silly, to con- 
temptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson’s, is not much better. 
Mr. Pinkerton, in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them 
notorious, though beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set. It is, 
full of his own interpolations—but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which 
may have escaped your hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


639 


congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed 
your character and fame ; which will now be tried, for ages to come, 
by the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters of Taste—all whom 
poesy can please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of Nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and 
1 am warranted by the spirit to foretell, and affirm, that your great¬ 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say with honest pride, 
“ This so much admired selection was the work of my ancestor I ”—R. B. 

No. CCLXXVI. 

TO MISS HELEN CRAIK, 

OP ARBIGLAND. 

Dumfries, August, 1793. 

Madam, 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind of return for 
the pleasure I have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems 
in the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old song is 
a proverb whose force you. Madam, I know will not allow. What is 
said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry— 
none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be 
melancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were 
penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. In the compara¬ 
tive view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, 
but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind ; give him 
a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between 
them will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions than are the 
usual lot of man ; inplant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle va¬ 
gary, such as arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the 
grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of 
the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of 
butterflies—in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall 
eternally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with 
a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can 
purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him 
a spurning sense of his own dignity; and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you, Madam, I need not recount the 
fairy pleasures the Muse bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of 
evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman; she has in all 
ages been accused of misleading mankind from the councils of wisdom 
and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting them 
with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 





640 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


whirling vortex of ruin : yet where is the man but must own that all 
our happiness on earth is not worthy the name; that even the holy 
hermit’s solitary prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun rising over a frozen region, compared with the many 
pleasures, the nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of 
the heart of Man !—R. B. 


No. CCLXXVII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

I HAVE tried my hand on “ Robin Adair,” and, you will probably 
think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the- 
way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it. 

[Here follow three stanzas of “ Phillis the Fair.” Page 252.] 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it 
in Scots verse. There I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song I meant for “ Cauld Kail in 
Aberdeen.” If it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the heroine 
is a favorite of mine ; if not, I shall also be pleased ; because I wish, 
and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. ’Tis a 
tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself. 

No. CCLXXVIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. , 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, “ Robin Adair,”has run so in my head, 
and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning’s walk, one essay more. 

[“ Had I a Cave.” Page 253.] 

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadal- 
bane’s Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he 
well remembers his mother’s singing Gaelic songs to both “ Robin 
Adair” and “ Gramachee.” They certainly have more of the Scotch 
than Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness; so it could not be 
any intercourse with Ireland that could bring them except what I 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and 
pipers, used to go frequently errant through the wilds of both of Scot¬ 
land and Ireland, so some favorite airs might be common to both. A 
case in point.—They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish air, as 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


641 


they say, called “ Caun du delish.” The fact is, in a publication of 
Corri’s, a great while ago, you will find the same air called a Highland 
one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name there, I think, is “ Oran 
Gaoil,” and a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic 
Parson about these matters. 

No. CCLXXIX. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

August^ 1793. 

That tune, “ Cauld Kail,” is such a favorite of yours, that I once 
more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the Muses ; when the 
Muse that presides o’er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring 
dearest nymph Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons 
for thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by 
my elbow, “ smooth gliding without step,” and pouring the song on 
my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila’s native haunts, 
not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her; so I more than suspect that she has 
followed me hither, or at least makes me occasional visits: secondly, 
the last stanza of this song I sent you is the very words that Coila 
taught me many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in 
Johnson’s “ Museum.” ^ 

[“ Come, let me take thee to my breast.”] 

If you think the above will suit your idea of your favorite air, I 
shall be highly pleased. “ The last time I came o’er the moor” I can¬ 
not meddle with as to mending it; and the musical world has been so 
long accustomed to Ramsay’s words, that a different song, though posi¬ 
tively superior, would not be so well received. I am not fond of choruses 
to songs, so I have not made one for the foregoing. 

No. CCLXXX. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

Sept., 1793. 

You know that my pretensions to musicial taste are merely a few of 
nature’s instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason 
many musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies 
in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of 
you connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise then merely as me¬ 
lodious din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with 
many little melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and 
insipid. I do not know whether the old air, “ Hey, tuttie taitie,” may 



642 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


rank among this number ; but well I know that, with Fraser’s hautboy, 
it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have I 
met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce’s march | 
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wander- , 
ings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and in¬ 
dependence, which 1 threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, j 

that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot’s address to his 
heroic followers on that eventful morning. ! 

[“ Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.”]i 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as He did 
that day !—Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, 
and begged me to make soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of 
that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas 
of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, 
roused my rhyming mania. Clarke’s set of the tune, with his bass, 
you will find in the “ Museum; ” though I am afraid that the air is not 
what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. 

No. CCLXXXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

' Sept,, 1793. 

I DARESAY, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspond¬ 
ence is persecution. No matter, I can’t help it ; a ballad is my hobby¬ 
horse, which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical 
beast enough, has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when 
once it has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamored 
with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to 
run poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point 
or post in the common race of man. 

The following song I have composed for “ Oran Gaoil,” the High¬ 
land air, that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to- give a 
place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you 
have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well!—If not, ’tis also 
well I 

[“ Behold the Hour.”] 

No. CCLXXXII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

“Laddie, lie near me,” must lie by me for some time. I do not 

‘ It is related that Burns composed this noble song under the influence of a storm 
Of rain and lightning among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


643 


know the air ; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own 
singing (such as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is : I con¬ 
sider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical ex¬ 
pression ; then choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is 
composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I 
walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature round 
me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy 
and workings of my bosom ; humming every now and then the air, 
with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to 
jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my 
effusions to paper ; swinging at intervals, on the hind-legs of my 
elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my 
pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism! 

“ Blithe hae I been o’er the hill” is one of the finest songs I ever 
made in my life ; and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving 
you the names and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some 
future edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must 
certainly include “ The bonniest lass in a’ the warld ” in your collec¬ 
tion. 

“ Saw ye my Father ? ” is one of my greatest favorites. The even¬ 
ing before last I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I 
think is its native style. I must premise that the old way, and the 
way to give most effect, is to have no starting-note, as the fiddlers call 
it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings 
“ Saw ye my Father? ” etc. . . . 

One song more and I have done—“ Auld Lang Syne.” The air is 
but mediocre ; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, 
and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I 
took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any 
air ;— 

[Here follows “ Auld Lang Syne,” of which Allan Cunningham 
attributes the second, third, and fourth verses to Burns.] 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after 
all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. “ Cil 
Morice,” “ Tranent Muir,” “ Macpherson’s Farewell,” “ Battle of 
Sheriff-Muir,” or “ We ran and they ran ” (I know the author of this 
charming ballad, and his history), “ Hardiknute.” “ Barbara Allan ’ 
(I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared); 
and, besides, do you know that I really have the old tune to which 
“ The Cherry and the Slae ” was sung, and which is mentioned .s a 
well-known air in “ Scotland’s Complaint,” a book published beiorc, poor 

18— Bums— BB 






644 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Mary’s days. It was then called “ The Banks o’ Helicon,” an old 
poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in 
Tytler’s “ History of Scottish Music.” The tune, to a learned ear, may 
have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many 
original things of this kind. 

No. CCLXXXHI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?” My ode “Bannock¬ 
burn ” pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. . . . 

I have finished my song to “ Saw ye my Father ? ” and in English, as 
you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of 
the air, it is true; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a 
dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter: 
however, in that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. 
Of the poetry I speak with confidence ; but the music is a business 
where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

No. CCLXXXIV. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

. . . Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If 
they were like the “ Banks of Banna,” for instance, though really 
Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are 
so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an 
additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you 
that you would find it the most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
approve of “ Roy’s Wife,” for the music’s sake, we shall not insert it. 
“ Deil tak the Wars ” is a charming song ; so is “ Saw ye my Peggy ? ” 
“ There’s nae Luck about the House ” well deserves a place. I cannot 
say that “ O’er the hills and far awa” strikes me as equal to your se¬ 
lection. “This is no my ain House” is a great favorite air of mine ; 
and if you will send me your set of it, I will task my muse to her 
highest effort. What is your opinion of “I hae laid a Herrin’ in 
Sawt? ” I like it much. Your Jacobite airs ar^ pretty : and there are 
many others of the same kind, pretty; but you have not room for 
them. You cannot, I think, insert “ Fye, let’s a’ to the Bridal,” to any 
other words than its own. 

What pleases me as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous and 
low. For this reason “ Fye, gie me my coggie. Sirs,” “ Fye, let’s a’ to 





THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 


645 


the Bridal,” with several others of that cast, are, to me, highly pleas¬ 
ing ; while “Saw thee my Father, or saw ye my Mother?” delights 
me with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, “ Ken ye what 
Meg o’ the Mill has gotten ? ” pleases myself so much, that I cannot try 
my hand at another song to the air ; so I shall not attempt it. I know 
you will laugh at all this; but like “ Ilka man wears his belt his ain 
gait.” 

No. CCLXXXV. 

TO JOHN McMURDO, ESQ. 

Dumfries, December, 1793. 

Sir, 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest 
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in 
which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money 
longer than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Ker’s account, and 
here are six guineas ; and now I don’t owe a shilling to man—or 
woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog’s-ear’d little pages 
[Scottish banknotes], I had done myself the honor to have waited on 
you long ago. Independent of the obligations your hospitality has 
laid me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman of itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
head against; but to owe you money too was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a collection of Scots songs I 
have for some years been making : I send you a perusal of what I have 
got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six 
days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice 
you. A very few of them are my own. When you are tired of them, 
please leave them with Mr. Clint, of the King’s Arms. There is not 
another copy of the collection in the world ; and I should be sorry that 
any unfortunate negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a 
good deal of pains. 

R. B. 


No. CCLXXXVI. 

TO CAPTAIN [ROBERTSON OF LUDE?]. 


Dumfries, ^th December, 1793. 


Sir, 

Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather 
seemingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honored with your 



646 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


acquaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt 
respect. “ He is the father of the Scottish country reform, and is a 
man who does honor to the business at the same time that the business 
does honor to him,” said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by 
me who was talking of your coming to this country with your corps. 
“ Then,” I said, “ I have a woman’s longing to take him by the hand, 
and say to him, ‘ Sir, I honor you as a man to whom the interests of 
humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your coun¬ 
try are sacred.’ ” 

In times like these. Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the 
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom 
shall a sinking country call for help? To the independent country 
gentleman! To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to 
be in earnest for her welfare, and who in the honest pride of man can 
view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements 
,3f corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and 
which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall 
in with you at the theater, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. 
Accept of it. Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect 
from a man who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an 
independent mind. 

I have the honor to be, 

R. B. 


No. CCLXXXVII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPY OF BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS AT BANNOCKBURN. 

Dumfries, 12th January, 1794. 

My Lord, 

Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed 
little composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the 
acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honor me. Inde¬ 
pendent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with any¬ 
thing in history which interests my feelings as a man equal with the 
story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel but able usurper, 
leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of 
freedom among a greatly daring and greatly injured people ; on the 
other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation devoting them¬ 
selves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


647 


Liberty I thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable ; for never 
canst thou be too dearly bought I—R. B. 

No. CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns’s repugnance to officers of the army was probably due in some 
measure to his hostility to the political cause with which he identified 
them.] 

Dear Madam, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to 
your box-door, the first object which greeted my view was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the 
Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of 
your box-furniture on Tuesday ; when we may arrange the business of 
the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments which insiduous craft, or 
unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine—a shrine, how far 
exalted above such adoration !—permit me, were it but for rarity’s 
sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an inde¬ 
pendent mind ; and to assure you that I am, thou most amiable and 
most accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem and 
fervent regard, thine, etc. 

R. B. 


No. CCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN., 

DUMFRIES. 

[At a supper-table Burns proposed the toast, “ May our success in the 
present war be equal to the justice of our cause,” which was resented 
by an officer present as a reflection on the Government and the army. 
Next morning Burns wrote this note.] 


Dear Sir, 


Sunday Morning. 


I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. 

From the expressions Capt.-made use of to me, had I had nobody’s 

welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, ac¬ 
cording to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were such as generally, I be- 





648 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


lieve, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that 1 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and family of children in 
a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain 
political opinions being mine has already once before brought me to 
the brink of destruction. I dread lest last night’s business may be 
misrepresented in the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent 
it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns’s welfare with the task of waiting 
as soon as possible on every gentleman who was present, and state this 
to him, and as you please, show him this letter. What, after all, was 
the obnoxious toast ? ‘ ‘ May our suceess in the present war be equal to 

the justice of our cause ”—a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of 
loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning you wdll 
wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. 1 shall only add, 
that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in estimation as 

Mr.-should use me in the manner in which 1 conceive he has 

done.—R. B. 


No. CCXC. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns’s intimacy with the Riddels was interrupted about this time 
in consequence of the Poet’s rough behavior to the lady after a bout 
of hard drinking at the dinner-table. The following letter of apology 
is supposed to be written from the Dead to the Living.] 

Madam, 

I daresay that this is the first epistle you ever received from this 
nether world. I write you from the regions of hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not 
exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxica¬ 
tion, contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, 
I was fairly tried,and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this 
infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and 
twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct 
yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless 
furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, 
while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel—his name 
I think is Recollection —with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest 
to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if 
1 could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair 
circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would 
be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with 
this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology. 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


649 


Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no 
right to blame me ; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my 
guilt. But to you. Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good 
opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on 

earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss-too, 

a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners—do make, on 
my part, a miserable damned-wretch’s best apology to her. A Mrs. 

G-, a charming woman, did me the honor to be prejudiced in my 

favor ; this makes me hope that I hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness, j To all the other ladies please present my 
humblest contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious 
pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum ! whisper to them 
that my errors, though great, were involuntary—that an intoxicated 
man is the vilest of beasts—that it was not in my nature to be brutal to 
any one—that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impos¬ 
sible with me—but— 


Regret! Remorse ! Shame! ye three hellhounds that ever dog my 
steps and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offenses, and pity the perdition of. Madam, 

Your humble Slave, 

R. B. 


No. CCXCI. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Madam, 

I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much 
pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms; but as it seems 
the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their 
value. 

If it is true that “offenses come only from the heart,” before you 
I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most ac¬ 
complished of women and the first of friends—if these are crimes, I 
am the most offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly 
confidence, now to find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn, is a 
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of mis¬ 
erable good luck, that while de-haut-en-bas rigor may depress an un¬ 
offending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn 
something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of 
his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 



650 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


With the profoundest respect for your abilities; the most sincere 
esteem, and ardent regard, for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and 
bliss, 1 haye the honor to be. Madam, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CCXCII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[In spite of Burns’s rather abject pleadings the breach of friendship 
was not repaired. The lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, in which Burns 
vented his anger, cast a dark shadow on this part of his life.] 

I HAVE this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see 
that he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend 
him anything again. 

I have sent you “ Werter,” truly happy to have any the smallest 
opportunity of obliging you. 

’Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea ; and that 
once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was 
such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce 
sentence of death on him, could only have envied my feelings and 
situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak 
on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute 
of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man 
whom 1 have seen approach her.—R. B. 

No. CCXCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

[“They,” says Mr. Lockhart, “ who have been told that Burns was 
ever a degraded being, who have permitted themselves to believe 
that his only consolations where those of ‘ the opiate guilt applies to 
grief,’ will do well to pause over this noble letter and judge for them¬ 
selves.”] 


2^th February^ 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? Canst thou speak peace and 
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her ? 
Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tortures of suspense, 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


651 


the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? If thou 
canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my 
miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? . . . 

For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My con¬ 
stitution and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable 
taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number 
of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these 
cursed times—losses, which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill 
bear—have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could only be 
envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to 
perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in 
reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was 
like Judas Iscariot preaching the Gospel : he might melt and mold 
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept to its native 
incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of 
misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifi¬ 
cations of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the 
names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of 
those feelings and sentiments which, however the skeptic may deny 
them or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, origi¬ 
nal and component parts of the human soulthose senses of the mind, 
if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link 
us to, those awful obscure realities—an all-powerful and equally benefi¬ 
cent God, and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The 
first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field ; 
the last pours the balm of comfort into the wound which time can 
never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the 
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or at most as 
an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything 
of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. 
Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I 
would for his want of musical ear. I would regret that he was shut 
out from wdiat, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of 
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I will 
deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son 
should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment and taste, I shall thus 
add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet 
little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will be a man of a 



652 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


melting, ardent, glowing heart, and an imagination delighted with the 
painter and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in 
a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the growing 
luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in the blooming youth of 
life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature’s 
God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this sub¬ 
lunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the 
glorious enthusiasm of Thomson— 

“ These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God.—The rolling year 
Is full of Thee : ” 

and so on in all the spirit and ardor of that charming hymn. These 
are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask, what of the 
delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal, to them ? 
And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue 
stamps them for her own, and lays hold on them to bring herself into 
the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.—R. B. 

No. CCXCIV. 

TO MISS LAWRIE. 

[When Capt. Riddel died, in April, 1794, no reconciliation had taken 
place between him and Burns ; but the latter, recollecting^only the kind¬ 
ness he had received at Carse, wrote a sonnet (the only verses he com¬ 
posed during the first half of 1794) on the death of his former friend, 
which was published in a local paper. The following letter was 
addressed to Mrs. Riddel’s sister in order to procure the return of some 
manuscript pieces which had been lent to Capt. Riddel, but which, 
for various reasons, Burns was very anxious should be suppressed.] 

Dumfries, 1794. 

Madam, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me 
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I 
put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the 
friend of my soul and his amiable connections ! the wrench at my heart 
to think that he is gone, forever gone from me, never more to meet in 
the wanderings of a weary world I and the cutting reflection of all, 
that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight I 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. However, you 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


653 


also may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine : sensi¬ 
bility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me is not 
the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I knovr not how to 
wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who can estimate 
the fatuity of giddy caprice, or w’ard off the unthinking mischief of 
precipitate folly ? 

I have a favor to request of you. Madam; and of your sister, Mrs. Riddel, 
through your means. You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I 
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. 
They are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all of 
them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake—a 
fame that I trust may live when the hate of those who “ watch for my 
halting,” and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has 
made my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of 
oblivion—I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts. Will 
Mrs. Riddel have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me ? 
As a pledge of friendship they were bestowed ; and that circumstance 
indeed was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no 
longer possess ; and I hope that Mrs. Riddel’s goodness, which I well 
know, and ever will revere, will not refuse this favor to a man whom 
she once held in some degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the honor to be, Madam, etc. 

R. B. 


No. CCXCV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douglas, June, 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to 
amuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary confinement, you know, 
is Howard’s favorite idea of reclaiming sinners ; so let me consider by 
what fatality it happens that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. 
To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies 
of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; 
but I trust they are mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the flrst sketch 
of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The sub¬ 
ject is Liberty : you know, my honored friend, how dear the theme is 
to me. I design it an irregular ode for General Washington’s birthd' 




654 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 1 come to 
Scotland thus:— 


“ Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 

Thee famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes : 

Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 

Immingled with the mighty dead, 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies I 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death : 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb ye not the hero’s sleep. 

With the additions of— 

“ Behold that eye which shot immortal hate. 

Braved usurpation’s boldest daring ; 

That arm which, nerved with thundering fate. 

Crushed the despot’s proudest bearing 1 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.” 

You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. 

R. B. 


No. CCXCVI. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 


Dumfries, 1794. 

My dear Friend, 

You should have heard from me long ago; but, over and above 
some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I 
have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so 
that I have almost hung my harp on the willoiv trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems ; and this, 
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment. 

1 send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth 
volume ; if we cannot finish it any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs ? In the meantime, at your 
leisure, give a copy of the “ Museum” to my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly 
as he did the Laird of Glenriddle’s, that I may insert every anecdote I 
can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. 
A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at 
some after period, by way of making the “ Museum” a book famous to 
the end of time, and you renowned forever.—R. B. 









THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


655 


No. CCXCVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Before you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be in¬ 
formed by you, how I shall write you ? “ In friendship,” you say ; and 
I have many a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of “ friendship” 
to you, but it will not do ; ’tis like Jove grasping a popgun after having 
wielded his thunder. When I take up the pen, recollection ruins me. 
Ah, my ever-dearest Clarinda! Clarinda. What a host ofmemory’s 
tenderest offspring crowd on my fancy at that sound ! But I must not 
indulge that subject; you have forbid it. 

I am extremely happy to learn that yom* precious health is re¬ 
established, and that you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfaction in 
existence which health alone can give us. My old friend Ainslie has 
indeed been kind to you. Tell him, that I envy him the power of 
serving you. I had a letter from him a while ago, but it was so dry, 
60 distant, so like a card to one of his clients, that I could scarce bear 
to read it, and have not yet answered it. He is a good, honest fellow, 
and can write a friendly letter, which would do equal honor to his 
head and his heart, as a whole sheaf of his letters which I have by me 
will witness ; and though Fame does not blow her trumpet at my ap¬ 
proach now as she did tlien^ when he first honored me with his friend¬ 
ship, yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid in my grave, I 
wish to be stretched at my full length, that I may occupy every inch 
of ground I have a right to. 

You would laugh were you to see me where I am just now. Would 
to Heaven you were here to laugh with me, though I am afraid that 
crying would be our first employment I Here am I set, a solitary her¬ 
mit, in the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of 
wine by me, as grave and as stupid as an owl, but, like that owl, still 
faithful to my old song ; in confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mac, 
here is your good health ! May the hand-waled benisons o’ Heaven 
bless your bonnie face ; and the wratch wha skellies at your welfare, 
may the auld tinkler deil get him, to clout his rotten heart! Amen. 

You must know, my dearest Madam, that these now many years, 
wherever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called 
as a toast I constantly give you ; but as your name has never passed my 
lips, even to my most intimate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs. 
Mac. This is so well known among my acquaintances, that when any 
married lady is called for, the toast-master will say : “ Oh, we need not 
ask him who it is here’s; Mrs. Mack I ” 1 have also, among my convivial 
friends, set on foot a round of toasts, which 1 call a round of Arcadian 





656 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Shepherdesses—that is a round of favorite ladies, under female names 
celebrated in ancient song; and then you are my Clarinda. So, my 
lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for 
your happiness. 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 

Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear : 

Above that world on wings of love I rise ; 

1 know its worst, and can that worst despise. 

“ Wronged, injured, shunned, unpitied, unredrest— 

The mocked quotation of the scorner’s jest 
Let Prudence’ direst bodements on me fall, 

Clarinda, rich reward I o’erpays them all. 

I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do not know if they are 
worth postage. 

Tell me what you tbink of the following monody. [See page 182.] 

The subject of the foregoing is a woman of fashion in this country ,1 
with whom at one period I was well acquainted. By some scandalous 
conduct to me, and two or three other gentlemen here as well as me, 
she steered so far to the north of my good opinion, that I have made 
her the theme of several ill-natured things. . . . 

R. B. 


No. CCXCVIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 

Is there no new’s yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work to be at a dead stop 
until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage 
thraldom of democratic discords? Alas the day! And woe is me! 
That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of millions, . . , 
seems by no means near .2 


No. CCXCIX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Z()th August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I w^as straying out, and thinking of “ O’er the 
Hills and Far Away,” I spun the following stanza for it; but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread 
of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture of 

’ Mrs. Riddel. 

• The suppressed portion of the letter was an ironical tirade on the mishaps of 
Prussia in her war against France. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


657 


the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was 
pleased with several lines in it, at first; but I own that now it appears 
rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. 
We have many sailor songs; but, as far as I at present recollect, they 
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his 
love-lorn mistress. I must here make one sweet exception—“ Sweet 
Annie frae the Sea-beach came.” Now for the song:— 

[“ On the Seas and Far Away.” Given in jpage 256.] 

No. CCC. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my “On the Seas and Far Away” altogether : it 
is unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like begetting 
a son : you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until 
you produce him to the world to try him. 

No. CCCI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1794. 

... To compare small things with great, my taste in music is like 
the mighty Frederick of Prussia’s taste in painting : we are told that 
he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always, 
without any hypocrisy, confessed his admiration. I am sensible that 
my taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of un¬ 
disputed and cultivated taste can find no merit in my favorite tunes. 
Still, because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should 
deny myself that pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and 
modern, give me most exquisite enjoyment, where you and other 
judges would probably be showing disgust. For instance, I am just 
now making verses for “ Rothemurche’s Rant,” an air which puts me 
in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I never 
can make verses to it. . . . 

I have begun anew “ Let me in thisae night.” Do you think that we 
ought to retain the old chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like the 
third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am 
just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be 
successful or other^vise? Should she “ let him in ” or not ? . . . 

How do you like the following epigram, which I wrote the other day, 


L 




658 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


on a lovely young girl’s recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell was 
the physician who seemingly saved her from her grave ; and to him I 
address the following. {Seepage 229.) 

TO DR. MAXWELL. 

ON MISS JESSIE CRAIG’S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny ; 

You save fair Jessie from the grave 
An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle I 

No. CCCII. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

mh October 1794. 

My Dear Friend, 

By this morning’s post I have your list, and in general, I highly 
approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day’s fly, and I wish you would call on 
him and take his opinion in general: you know his taste is a standard. 
He will return here again in a week or two; so please do not miss 
asking for him. One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to adopt 
my favorite, “ Craigie-burn Wood,” in your selection; it is as great 
a favorite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of 
the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact {entre-nous), is in a manner 
to me what Sterne’s Eliza was to him—a mistress, or friend, or what you 
will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now don’t put any 
of your squinting constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver 
about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely 
friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you 
think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man 
with life, and love, and joy—could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt 
him with pathos equal to the genius of your book ?—no I no ! Whenever 
I want to be more than ordinary in song, to be in some decree 
equal to your diviner airs, do you imagine I fast and pray for the 
celestial emanation ? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe: 
the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of 
healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put 
myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in proportion to 
the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my 
verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon! . . . These English 
songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the languago 










THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


659 


that I have of my native tongue. I have been at “ Duncan Gray,’’ to 
dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. 

, No. CCCIII. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

[“Chloris,” otherwise Jean, was the eldest daughter of Mr. W. 
Lorimer, a farmer on the banks of the Nith—a very handsome girl. 
She made an unfortunate love-match with a young gentleman from 
Cumberland named Whelpdale who being pursued for debts, abandoned 
his wife. She returned to her parents being then only about eighteen 
years of age, and did not see her husband again for twenty-three 
years.] 

November, 1794. 

On my first visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic 
name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea 
which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following song 
[Chloris]. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of 

ma ehere Amie.’’ I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my 
life than in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. 
Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate; 
but, somehow, it does not make such a figure in poesy as that other 
species of the passion, 

“ Where Love is liberty, and Nature law,” 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is 
scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last 
has powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. 
Still, I am a very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare 
and happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment 
that pervades my soul; and whatever pleasure I might wish for, or 
w'hatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they 
interfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains, the 
purchase! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English 
songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs of 
which the measure is something similar to what I want; and, with a 
little alteration, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give 
you them for your work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little 
noticed, nor have ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair 
one. . . . 




66 o 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCCIV. 

TO G. THOMPSON. 

There is an air, “ The Caledonian Hunt’s Delight,” to which I 
wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. “Ye Banks and Braes o’ bon- 
nie Boon” : this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as 
Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air ? it is curious 
enough. A good many years ago Mr. James Miller, writer in your good 
town—a gentleman whom, possibly you know—was in company with 
our friend Clarke; and talking of Scottish music. Miller expressed an 
ardent ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly 
by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, 
and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a 
Scots air. Certain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the 
rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and correc¬ 
tions, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the 
same story of the black keys; but this account which I have just 
given you Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now to show 
you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it 
repeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air ; nay, I met with an 
Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old 
women; while on the other hand, a Countess informed me that the 
first person who introduced the air into this country was a baronet’s 
lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant 
piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain the truth 
respecting our poesy and music ! I myself have lately seen a couple of 
ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the 
head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever 
seen them. . . . 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; ’tis dunning 
your generosity ; but, in a moment when I had forgotten whether I 
was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings 
my honest pride to write you this, but an ungracious request is doubly 
so by a tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have 
extracted the necessary information out of them, I will return you 
Ritson’s volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a 
figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in 
my power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that 
my paper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humor, I know not 
when to give over.—R. B. 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


661 


No. CCCV. 

TO G. THOMSON. 


\Uh November, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent 1 am ; though 
indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favorite hobby, 
and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely 
ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing 
frost, in my walk before breakfast 1 finished my duet [“O Philly, 
happy be that Day ” ] which you were pleased to praise so much. . . . 

I remember your objections to the name Philly; but it is the 
common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, 
has, to my ear, a vulgarity about it which unfits it for anything except 
burlesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your 
brother editor, Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always 
mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; whereas simplicity is as much 
eloignee from vulgarity, on the one hand, as from affected point and 
puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you, as to the air “ Craigie-burn Wood,” that a chorus 
would, in some degree, spoil the effect; and shall certainly[have none 
in my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with 

Rothemurche ” ; there, as in “ Roy’s Wife of Aldivalloch,” a chorus 
goes, to my taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is 
the case with “Roy’s Wife” as well as “Rothemurche.” In fact in 
the first part of both tunes the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and 
on that irregularity depends so much of their beauty, that we must 
e’en take them with all their wildness, and humor the verse accord¬ 
ingly. Leaving out the starting-note in both tunes has, I think, an 
effect that no regularity could counterbalance the want of :— 

O Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, 

O Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, 

Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, 

Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you ? In the last 
case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insipid method it is like the 
grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 
is my taste; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

“The Caledonian Hunt” is so charming that it would make any 
subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue, 


Try 

and 

compare with 




662 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are 
excellent. For instance “Todlin Hame ” is, for wit and humor, an 
unparalleled composition ; and “ Andrew and his cutty Gun ” is the 
work of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that 
those men of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a 
heart-ache.—R. B. 


No. CCCVI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday’s penmanship 1 have framed a couple of English 
stanzas, by way of an English song to “ Roy’s Wife.” 

[The song “ Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy,” is given in page 292.] 

Well! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room 
and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from some¬ 
body. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling 
circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth, that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of 
the stock and horn. I have at last gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument; it is composed of three parts; the stock, which is the 
hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton ham ; the 
horn, which is a common Highland cow’s horn, cut off at the smaller 
end, until the aperture be large enough to admit the stock, to be 
pushed up through the horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the 
thigh-bone; and, lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched, like 
that which you see every shepherd-boy have when the corn-stems are 
green and full-grown. The reed is not made fact in the bone, but held 
by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock ; while the 
stock, with the horn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in 
playing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and 
one back-ventige, like the common flute. This of mine was made by a 
man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds are 
wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else 
we have not the art of blowing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. 
If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on 
myself to be a kind of brother-brush with him. “ Pride in poets is nae 
sin,” and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world.— 
R. B. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


663 


No. CCCVII. 

TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., 

OF DALSWINTON. 

[This is a reply to an offer by Mr. Perry (through Mr. Peter Miller) 

an engagement on the Morning Chronicle, of which he was editor. ] 

Dumfries, November, 1794. 

Dear Sir, 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I 
thank you for it; but In my present situation I find that I dare not 
accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an 
insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, 
with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services : 
I then could and would have despised all consequences that might 
have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at least, it is, encumbered 
as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half a score of 
helpless individuals, what I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time they are most welcome to my Ode ; only let them 
insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to 
me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honor, after your character of him, I 
cannot doubt; if he will give me an address and channel by which 
anything will come safe from those spies with which he may be certain 
that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send him any 
bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry of Europe nothing 
but news and politics will be regarded ; but against the days of peace, 
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance may perhaps fill up an 
idle column of a newspaper. 1 have long had it in my head to try my 
hand in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into 
the world through the medium of some newspaper ; and should these 
be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome ; and all my 
reward shall be, his treating me with his paper—which, by the bye, to 
anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, dear Sir, 

R. B. 


No. CCCVIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs; however a few may please, yet originality is 
a coy feature in composition, and a multiplicity of efforts in the same 



664 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


style disappears altogether. For these three thousand years we poetic 
folks have been describing the spring, for instance ; and, as the spring 
continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in imagery, etc., 
of these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the ex¬ 
clusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be allowed, I think, to be two 
or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme :— 

[“ Is there, for honest poverty.” Page 300.] 

No. CCCIX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Ecclefechan, 7th February, 1795. 

My dear Thomson, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write 
to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked 
little village I have gone forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have 
impeded my progress : I have tried to “ gae back the gate I cam again,” 
but the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner a scraper has been torturing catgut, in 
sounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the 
hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceed¬ 
ing good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma—either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : 
like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, 
and deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, 
at your service I 


No. CCCX. 

TO MR. HERON, 

OF HERON. 

[Mr. Heron was at this time a candidate for the representation of the 
Stewartry of Kirkcudbright; and there can be no question that Burns’s 
poetical advocacy of his cause, however generous, was extremely im¬ 
prudent in any Government afficial in that time of keen political ex¬ 
citement. Mr. Heron carried the election.] 

Dumfries, 1794 or 1795. 

Sir, 


I enclose you some copies of a couple of political ballads ; one of 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


665 


which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven I could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry ! but— 

“ Who does the utmost that he can, 

Does well, acts nobly : angels could no more.” 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the 
foe, I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and 
have sent them among friends all about the country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter 
dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto, which has not only 
outraged virtue, but violated common decency, spurning even hy¬ 
pocrisy as paltry iniquity below their daring to unmask their flagi¬ 
tiousness to the broadest day—to deliver such over to their merited 
fate—is surely not merely innocent, but laudable; is not only pro¬ 
priety, but virtue. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober de¬ 
testation of mankind on the heads of your opponents ; and I swear by 
the lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the votaries of honest 
laughter and fair, candid ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interest 
in a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life 
must be in a great measure stationary, at least, for two or three years. 
The statement is this: I am on the supervisors’ list, and as we come on 
there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that 
Isst, and be appointed of course. Then a friend might be of service to 
me in getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
supervisor’s income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two 
hundred a year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would 
be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The 
moment I am appointed supervisor, in the common routine, I may be 
nominated on the collector’s list; and this is always a business purely 
of political patronage. A collectorship varies much, from better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. They also come forward by 
precedency on the list; and have, besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competency, 
is the summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of 
silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or would not be indebted to, 
a political friend : at the same time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs 
before you thus, to hook my dependant situation on your benevolence. 
If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur where the good offices 
of a gentleman of your public character and political consequence 
might bring me forward, I shall petition your goodness with the same 
frankness as I now do myself the honor to subscribe myself,—R. B. 




666 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


No. CCCXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[Enclosing “ How cruel are the Parents,” and “Mark Yonder 
Pomp.”] 

. . Well ! this is not amis4. You see how I answer your orders ; 
your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of 
poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don’t cure me. 
If you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating potion 
of your applause, it will raise your humble servant’s frenzy to any 
height you want. I am at this moment “ holding high converse ” with 
the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog 
as you are. 


No. CCCXII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present; i though I am ashamed 
of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means 
merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all agree with me in classing 
it as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very 
joiner’s apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel 
(I was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful com¬ 
pliments to Allan, who has honored my rustic muse so much with his 
masterly pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is 
making the felonious attempt on the cat’s tail is the most striking like¬ 
ness of an ill-deedie, d—n’d wee rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, 
from that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu’ mischief which 
even at twa days auld I foresaw would form the striking features of his 
disposition, I named Willie Nicol; after a certain friend of mine, who 
is one of the masters of a grammar-school in a city which shall be 
nameless. 

» The picture alluded do was painted by David Allan from the “ Cotter’s Saturday 
Night ” : it displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. The 
scene is a solemn one : but the serenity of the moment is disturbed by what some es¬ 
teem as a beauty—namely, the attempt to cut the tip of the cat’s tail by the little 
merry urchin seated on the ^oot—A llan Cunningham, 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


667 


No. CCCXIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

In “Whistle, and I’ll come to ye, my Lad,” the iteration of that line 
is tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement:— 

“ O whistle, and I’ll come to ye, my lad ; 

O whistle, and 111 come to ye, my lad ; 

• Tho’ father, and mother, and a’ should gae mad. 

Thy Jeany will venture wi’ ye, my lad.” 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer 
up the incense of Parnassus ; a dame, whom the Graces have attired in 
witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with lightning; a fair 
one, herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and 
dispute her commands if you dare ! 


No. CCCXIV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Mr. Burns’s compliments to Mrs. Riddel; is much obliged to her for 
her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B. being 
at present acting as supervisor of Excise, a department that occupies 
his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is neces¬ 
sary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again 
return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs. 
R.’s beautiful song, “ To thee, loved Nith,” which it so well deserves. 
When “ Anacharis’Travels ” come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel men¬ 
tioned as her gift to the public library, Mr. B. will feel honored by the 
indulgence of a perusal of them before presentation ; it is a book he 
has never yet seen, and the regulations of the library allow too little 
leisure for deliberate reading! 

Friday Evening. 

P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will favor 
him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have 
seen. 


No. CCCXV. 


TO MRS. DUNLOP. 


My dear Friend, 

As I am in a complete 


lUh December^ 179,5. 

Decemberish humor, gloomy, sullen, 
18—Burns—CC 



668 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not 
drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my 
late silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will sym¬ 
pathize in it: these four months a sweet little girl, my youngest child, 
has been so ill, that every day a week or less threatened to terminate 
her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed to 
the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many 
peculiar cares. 1 cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours 
these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little foy^s ; me 
and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does the 
life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ! even in 
all the vigor of manhood as I am—such things happen every day— 
gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! ’Tis here that 
I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an 
everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man 
of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and 
friends, while I—but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old 
Scots ballad— 

“ O that I had ne’er been married! 

I would never had nae care : 

Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie I evermair. 

“ Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day ; 

And ye, crowdie 1 ony mair, 

Ye’ll crowdie ! a’ my meal away.” 

December 2Uh. 

We have had a brilliant theater here this season ; only, as all other 
business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, want of cash. I mentioned our theater 
merely to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit- 
night of one of the actresses, and which is as follows:— 

[Here the Address is transcribed. See page 117.] 

25th, Christmas Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes ; accept mine— 
so Heaven hear me as they are sincere I—tliat blessings may attend 
your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my 
favorite author, “ The Man of Feeling,” “ May the Great Spirit bear 
up the weight of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them 
rest! ” 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


669 


Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper ? ” 1 Is not the 
Task ” a glorious poem ? The religion of the “ Task,” bating a few 
scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and nature ; the 
religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your 
“ Zeluco” in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and 
notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless 
I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

1 have lately collected, for a friend’s perusal, all my letters ; I mean 
those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote 
out fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which, from time to 
time, 1 had parceled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, 
and which yet at the same time I did not care to destroy, I discovered 
many of these rude sketches, and, have written, and am writing them 
out, in a bound MS. for my friend’s library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you ex¬ 
cept one, about the commencement of our acquaintance. If there 
were any possible conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book, 

R. B. 


No. CCCXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

IN LONDON. 

DjtJMFRiES, 20th December, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of 
yours. In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I 
was in the country, and did not return until too late to answer your 
letter ; in the next place, I thought you would certainly take this 
route ; and now I know not what has become of you, or whether this 
may reach you at all. God grant that it may find you and yours in 
prospering health and good spirits ! Do let me hear from you the 
soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall every 
leisure hour take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, 
prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of 
late. I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish 
Songs, which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and 
where I have the honor to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a 
personage than Peter Pindar does over the English. 

1 Burns generally carried Cowper’s “ Task ” in his pocket, and took it out when he 
found himself in a lonely road, or in a brewhouse where he had to wait sometimes to 
“ gauge the browst.” The copy which he used was only lent to him by Mrs. Dunlop, 
the margins of which he enriched with notes, critical and commendatory. 



6/0 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


December 29th. 

Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity 
of supervisor here ; and I assure you, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have com¬ 
manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only 
temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look 
forward to an early period when I shall be appointed in full form—a 
consummation devoutly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be 
forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year’s-day is now my date) of wishing ; and 
mine are most fervently offered up for you. May life to you be a posi¬ 
tive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; and that it may yet 
be greatly prolonged is my wish, for my own sake, and for the sake of 
the rest of your friends ! What a transient business is life ! Very 
lately I was a boy ; but t’other day I was a young man; and I already 
begin to feel the rigid fiber and stiffening joints of old age coming fast 
o’er my frame. With all my follies of youth, and I fear a few^vices of 
manhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days 
religion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any 
one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I 
look on the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and Good¬ 
ness superintending and directing every circumstance that can happen 
in his lot—I felicitate such a man, as having a solid foundation for his 
mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay in the hour of difficulty, 
trouble, and distress; and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he 
looks beyond the grave. 

January V2th. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenuous friend, the Doctor, long 
ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I dare say for the hundred and fiftieth 
time, his “View of Society and Manners;” and still I read it with 
delight. His humor is perfectly original: it is neither the humor of 
of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. By 
the bye, you have deprived me of “ Zeluco : ” remember that, when you 
are disposed to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes 
of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last pub¬ 
lication.—R. B. 











THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


671 


CCCXVII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAILIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL 

OF DUMFRIES. 

r. [ 1795 ] . 

Gentlemen, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably 
filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great 
object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still to me, 
a stranger, with my large family and very stinted income, to give my 
young ones that education I wish, at the high school fees which a 
stranger pays, will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the honor of making me an 
honorary Burgess. W ill you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far as to put me on a footing of a real free¬ 
man of the town in the schools ? 

That I may not appear altogether unworthy of this favor allow me to 
state to you some little services I have lately done a branch of j^our 
revenue—the two pennies exigible on foreign ale vended within your 
limits. In this rather neglected article of your income, I am ready to 
show that within these few weeks my exertions have secured for you 
of those duties nearly the sum of Ten Pounds ; and in this, too, I was 
the only one of the gentlemen of the Excise (except Mr. Mitchell, 
whom you pay for his trouble) who took the least concern in the 
business. 

If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a 
constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially 
serve you, and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with 
which I have the honor to be. 

Gentlemen, 

Your devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 


No. CCCXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, 20th January, 1796. 

I Cannot express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer 
perusal of “ Anacharsis.” In fact, I never met with a book that be- 

1 The original draft of this letter is in the British Museum. Cromek, who first 
published it (omitting, however, the third paragraph), states that the poet’s request 
was immediately complied with- 




6/2 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


witched me so much ; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly 
feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed, to me the obliga¬ 
tion is stronger than to any other individual of our society ; as “ Ana- 
charsis ” is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning’s card is, I think, flown 
from me forever. 1 have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I 
did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

R. B. 


No. CCCXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[There seems about this time to have been some coldness between 
Burns and Mrs. Dunlop, probably caused by her displeasure at his con¬ 
firmed habits of conviviality. J 

Dumfries, 31st January, 1796. 

These many months you have been two packets in my debt; wdiat 
sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I 
am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas, Madam ! ill can I afford, at this 
time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
heve lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me 
of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and 
so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. 
I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became my¬ 
self the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun 
doubtful; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned 
up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed 
have been before my own door in the street. 

“ When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 

Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 

And shuts,-forever shuts, life’s doubtful day.” 

R. B. 


No. CCCXX. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

[Who had desired him to go to the Birthday Assembly on that day 
to show his loyalty.] 

Dumfries, ith June, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing 
my loyalty in anyway. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


673 


every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam : “ Come, curse 
me Jacob ; and come, defy me Israel I ” So say I: Come, curse me 
that east wind, and come, defy me the north I Would you have me in 
such circumstances copy you out a love-song ? 

1 may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. 
Why should I ? “ Man delights not me, nor woman either ! ” Can you 
supply me with the song, “ Let us all be unhappy together do if 
you can, and oblige le pauvre miserable,—R. B, 

No CCCXXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my 
lyre again 1 “By Babel’s streams I have sat and wept” almost ever 
since I wrote you last. I have only known existence by the pressure 
of the heavy hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the repercus¬ 
sions of pain. Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a 
terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them with¬ 
out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson— 

“ Say, wherefore has an ill-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given ? ” 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe 
Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff,i and 
where our friend Clark and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am 
highly delighted with Mr. Allan’s etchings. “ Woo’d and married an’ 
a’ ” is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression 
of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire “ Turnimspike.” What I like least 
is “ Jenny said to Jocky.” Besides the female being in her appearance 
quite a virago, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least 
two inches taller than her lover. 

Poor Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am to 
think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in 
this world. As for me—but that is a damning subject I 

No. CCCXXH. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

S 

I HAVE no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a 

* The “ howff ” of which Burns speaks was a small, comfortable tavern, situated in 
the mouth of the Glove close, and it held at that time the rank as third among the 
houses of public accommodation in Dumfries. 



674 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


fancy to review them all, and possibly may send some of them; so, 
when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the orig¬ 
inals or copies. I had rather be the author of five well-written songs 
than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of 
the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot 
boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my 
complaint is a flying gout: a sad business ! 

This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very 
poorly, but should much like to hear from you. 

No. CCCXXIII. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

EDINBURGH. 

[About May 17, 1796.] 

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume. 
You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you 
and your work ; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has 
these many months lain heavy on me 1 Personal and domestic afflic¬ 
tion have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which 
I used to woo the rural Muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish 
what we have so well begun. The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular 
friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any 
message you may have. Farewell I—R. B. 

[Turn over."] 
[About June 17.] 

You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his 
saddle-bags miscarried. 1 am extremely anxious for your work, as, 
indeed, I am for everything concerning you and your welfare. You 
are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this 
world—because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publica¬ 
tion has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas I I 
fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over 
me will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he 
has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far 
more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit or the 
pathos of sentiment I However, hope is the cordial of the human 
heart, and I endeavor to cherish it as well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. Your work is a great 
one; and now that it is near finished, I see, if we were to begin again, 
two or three things that might be mended ; yet I will venture to proph- 










THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


675 


esy, that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and 
standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favor of you, because you have been so 
very good already ; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a 
young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the “ Scots 
Musical Museum.” If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging 
as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon. 

Yours ever, 

R. B. 

[In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy 
of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he 
had contributed, gratuitously, not less than 184 original, altered, and 
collected songs I The Editor has seen 180 transcribed by his own hand 
for the Museum. This letter was written on the 4th of July—the Poet 
died on the 21st.— Cromek. A fac-simile of this interesting letter is 
given in the latest edition Johnson’s Museum, 1839. The date “July 
4,” affirmed by Cromek, is conjectural and evidently wrong.] 

No. CCCXXIV. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-Bathing Quarters, Wi July, 1796. 

My dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered 
with the approbation of the literary circle you mention—a literary 
circle inferior to none in the‘two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I fear 
the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ! For 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and 
sometimes not; but these last three months I have been tortured with 
an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last 
stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale, ema¬ 
ciated, and so feeble as occasionally to need help from my chair—my 
spirits fled! fled !—but I can no more on the subject—only the medical 
folks tell me that my last and only chance is bathing, and country 
quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is this : when an ex¬ 
ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to 35Z. instead of 50Z. What 
way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse 
in country quarters, with a wife and five children at home, on 35Z. ? I 
mention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and 
that of all the friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of 
Excise to grant me the full salary; 1 I dare say you know them all 
» The Poet’s humble request of the continuance of his full salary was not granted. 



676 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with 
an exit truly En poUe —if I die not of disease, I must perish with 
hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not 
serve me with, and I have no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it to you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns 
threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal charge, 
which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world 
by the respectable designation of Alexander Cunningham Burns. My 
last was James Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the com¬ 
pany of nobility. Farewell.—R. B. 


No. CCCXXV. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Dear Brother, 10th July, 1796. 

It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am 
dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism 
has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally 
gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea¬ 
bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend’s house in the country, 
all the summer. God keep my wife and children ! if I am taken from 
their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two 
serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from 
too much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, that will 
cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember 
me to my mother. 

Yours, 

R. B. 


No. CCCXXVI. 


TO G. THOMSON. 

Brow, Ath July. 

My dear Sir, 

I received your songs ; but my health is so precarious, nay,danger- 
ously situated, that as a last effort I am here at sea-bathing quarters. 
Besides my inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I 
am so emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs I 
Alas ! is this a time for me to woo the Muses ? However, I am still 
anxiously willing to serve your work, and, if possible, shall try. I 
would not like to see another employed, unless you could lay your hand 
upon a poet whose productions would be equal to the rest. You will 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


677 


see my remarks and alterations on the margin of each song. My 
address is still Dumfries. Farewell, and God bless you ! —R. B. 

[The handwriting of this note is smaller and less steady than the 
other letters—like the writing of one who, in the interval, had become 
vin old man.— Robert Chambers.] 


No. CCCXXVII. 
To MRS. BURNS. 


Brow, Thursday. 

My dearest Love, 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; but my appetite is still 
extremely bad. No flesh nor flsh can I swallow ; porridge and milk 
are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess 
Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to 
her, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday. 

Your affectionate Husband, 

R. B. 


No. CCCXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 


Brow, Saturday^ IWi July, 1796. 

Madam, 

I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that 
I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will 
speedily send me beyond that bourn tvhence no traveler returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you honored me, was a friend¬ 
ship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your cor¬ 
respondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With 
what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet 
adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell! I 1—R. B, 


No. CCCXXIX. 

TO MR. JAMES BURNES, 


WRITER, MONTROSE. 

Dumfries, \2th July. 


My dear Cousin, 

When you offered me money assistance, little did I think I should 



678 


THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a consider¬ 
able bill, taking it into his head that 1 am dying, has commenced a 
process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into 
jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return 
of post, with ten pounds ? O, James ! did you know the pride of my 
heart, you would feel doubly for me. Alas! I am not used to beg. 
The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely ; you know, and 
my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my 
disease; guess, then, my horrors since this business began. If I had it 
settled, I would be; I think, quite M^ell in a manner. How shall I use 
the language to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity’s 
curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my brother’s affairs, and I fear I 
must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, par¬ 
ticularly as I shall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;—save me 
from the horrors of a jail! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not 
know what I have written. The subject is so horrible, I dare not look 
it over again. Farewell. i—R. B. 

CCCXXX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, 12th July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me 
to implore you for five pounds.^ A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to 
whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has 
commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for 
God’s sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me 
this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half dis¬ 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, 
I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds’ worth 
of the neatest song genius you have seen. I tried my hand on “Rothe- 
murche ” this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impos¬ 
sible to infuse much genius into the lines ; they are on the other side. 
(“ Full well thou know’st.” Page 266.) Forgive, forgive me ! 

1 James Burnes sent his cousin ten pounds the moment he received his letter, and 
shortly afterwards (June 29) five pounds to the poet’s widow, offering at the same 
time to bring up and educate her son Robert, if she was disposed to part with him. 
Such substantial kindness is worthy of special notice. 

» The dying Poet wrote entreatingly for five pounds, and Thomson sent the exact 
sum which he requested, from inability to send more ; or, as he avers, from a dread 
of giving offence to the sensitive mind of Burns. 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 


679 


;No. CCCXXXI. 

TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. 

[This is in answer to an offer on the part of Mr. Gracie, a banker in 
Dumfries, to send a post-chaise to bring Burns home.] 

Brow, Wednesday Morning, IQth July, 1796. 

My dear Sir, 

It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to ac¬ 
knowledge that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it 
already ; but, alas 1 my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need 
your kind offer this week, and I return to town the beginning of next 
week, it not being a tide week. I am detaining a man in a burning 
hurry ; so, God bless you ! 

R. B. 


No. CCCXXXII. 

TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, 

MAUCHIJNE. 

' Dumfries, ISth July, 1796. 

My dear Sir, 

Do, for Heaven’s sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My 
wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God ! what a situation 
for lier to be in, poor girl,i without a friend I I returned from sea¬ 
bathing quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost per¬ 
suade me that I am better ; but I think and feel that my strength is so 
gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me. 

Your Son-in-law, 

R. B. 


‘ Mrs. Burns was in the 29th year of her age. 




THE BORDER TOUR. 


[The notes which Burnes kept jotting down thus, from day to day, 
of two tours—one through the Border counties and the other through 
the Highlands—are so characteristic that we append them to the Letters. 
Burns’s companion during part of the border tour was Mr. Robert 
Ainslie, a clever, gray, rollicking young fellow—then a writer’s 
apprentice, afterwards a writer in Edinburgh. The pair traveled on 
horseback.] 

Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787.)—Lammermuir hills miserably dreary, 
but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the 
Merse.—Reach Berry well [near Dunse]—old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon 
character ; his hobbies agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics. 
In the first he is unexceptionally the clearest-headed, best-informed 
man I ever met with ; in the other two very intelligent. As a man of 
business he has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made 
a very decent independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, 
cheerful, amiable, old woman. Miss Ainslie—her person a. little 
embonpoint, but handsome; her face, particularly her eyes, full of 
sweetness and good humor. She unites three qualities rarely to be 
found together: keen, solid penetration ; sly, witty observation and 
remark ; and the gentlest, most unaffected female modesty. Douglas, 
a clever, promising young fellow. The family-meeting with their 
brother, my compagnon de voyage, very charming, particularly the 
sister. The whole family remarkably attached to their menials—Mrs. 
A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the 
kitchen ; Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house-servant: 
all his people old in his service—Douglas’s old nurse came to Berrywell 
yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy remarkable character— 
natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and 
extreme modesty. 

Sunday. —Went to church at Dunse. Dr. Bowmaker a man of 
strong lungs and pretty judicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, 
and altogether unconscious of his want of it. 

Monday. —Coldstream—went over to England—Cornhill, glorious 
river Tweed—clear and majestic-fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream 
with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman—beat Mr. F. in a dispute about 
680 








THE BORDER TOUR. 


681 


Voltaire. Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone. Mr. Brydone a most 
excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent : but a good deal of the 
French indiscriminate complaisance—from his situation past and 
present, an admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that 
possesses a large estate.^ Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her 
person and manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet—my 
reception extremely flattering—sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. —Breakfast at Kelso—charming situation of Kelso—fine 
bridge over the Tweed—enchanting views and prospects on both sides 
of the river, particularly the Scotch side ; introduced to Mr. Scott of 
the Royal Bank, an excellent, modest fellow—fine situation of it— 
ruins of Roxburgh Castle—a holly-bush growing where James II. of 
Scotland was accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small 
old religious ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted 
out and destroyed by an English Hottentot, a maitre dliotel of the 
Duke’s, a Mr. Cole. Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Rox¬ 
burghshire, superior to Ayrshire—bad roads. Turnip and sheep 
husbandry, their great improvements—Mr. M’Dowal, at Caverton Mill, 
a friend of Mr. Ainslie’s, with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, 
ewe and lamb together, at two guineas apiece—wash their sheep before 
shearing—seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece—low 
markets, consequently low rents—fine lands not above sixteen shillings 
a Scotch acre—magnificence of farmers and farm-houses—come up 
Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to lie, and so wish myself a good night. 

Wednesday. —Breakfast with Mr.-in Jedburgh—a squabble be¬ 
tween Mrs.-, a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old 

maid, respecting a relief minister—Miss gives Madam the lie ; and 
Madam, by way of revenge, ubbraids her that she laid snares to 
entangle the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony. 
Go about two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks—meet a polite, 
soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many 
years through the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians— 
charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, 
etc., intermingled among the houses—fine old ruins—a once magnifi¬ 
cent cathedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the 
appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle—Jed 
a fine romantic little river. 

> Mr. Brydone had been traveling tutor to several men of rank, and was the author 
of “ A Tour in Sicily and Malta.” In after years Scott visited Brydone, and in Mar 
mion speaks of him as a ” reverend pilgrim,” 

“ Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.” 



682 


THE BORDER TOUR. 


Dine with Capt. Rutherford—the Captain a polite fellow, fond of 
money in his farming way ; showed a particular respect to my hard¬ 
ship—his lady exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss 
Rutherford a beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much 
of a fine swelling bosom—her face very fine. 

Return to Jedburgh—walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown 
Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, 
writer, a veiy clever fellow ; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the 
place, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. The 
walking party of ladies; Mrs.-and Miss-her sister, before men¬ 

tioned.—N. B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and 
stupid, and bore me most shockingly.—Two Miss , tolerably agree¬ 
able. Miss Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. 
Miss Lindsay, a good-humored, amiable girl; rather short et embonpoint^ 
but handsome and extremely graceful—beautiful hazel eyes, full of 
spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture—an engaging face— un 
tout ensemble that speaks her of the first order of female minds. Her 
sister, a bonnie, strappan, rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after 

several unsuccessful efforts, of Mrs.-and Miss-, and somehow or 

other get hold of Miss Lindsay’s arm. My heart is thawed into melting 
pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland Bay of indif¬ 
ference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very 
well pleased with my hardship’s distinguishing her, and after some 
slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the titter round at 
defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold ; and when parted by 
the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. Somerville, she met me half, 
to resume my situation.— Nota Bene. The Poet within a point and a 
half of being d-mnably in love—I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as 
much tinder as ever. 

The old, cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss-. with all 

the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very 
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul on 
the Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea ;—I hardly refrain 
from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious 
slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty 

Excellence ! Sup at Mr.-’s ; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not 

of the supper-party, as they only are wanting. Mrs.-and Miss- 

still improve infernally on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, 
Mrs. Scott—breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line ; now retired 
to a romantic but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole— 
he accompanies us almost to Wauchope—we traverse the country to 







THE BORDER TOUR. 


683 


the top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolea 
Hill. 

Wauchope. Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given 
to Sancho Panca very shrewd in his farming matters, and not un- 
frequently stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than 
a good thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and 
bold, critical decision, which usually distinguish female authors. Sup 
with Mr. Potts—agreeable party. Breakfast next morning with Mr. 
Somerville—the bruit of Miss Lindsay and my hardship, by means of 

the invention and malice of Miss-. Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. 

Lindsay; begging him and family to breakfast if convenient, but at 
all events to send Miss Lindsay ; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes. 
I find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me—I met with 
some little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excel¬ 
lent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine family. Mr. Ainslie and 

Mrs. S. junrs., with Mr.-, Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to see Esther, 

a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds, and some¬ 
times making Scotch doggrel herself : she can repeat by heart almost 
everything she has ever read, particularly Pope’s Homer from end to 
end ; has studied Euclid by herself ; and, in short, is a woman of very 
extraordinary abilities. On conversing with her I find her fully equal 
to the character given of her. She is very much flattered that I send 
for her, and that she sees a poet who has “ put out a book,” as she says. 
She is, among other things, a great florist—and is rather past the 
meridian of once celebrated beauty. 

I walk in Esther’s garden with Miss Lindsay, and after some little 
chitchat of the tender kind, I presented her with a proof print of my 
Nob, which she accepted with something more tender than gratitude. 

She told me many little stories which Miss-had retailed concerning 

her and me, wdth prolonging pleasure—God bless her ! Was waited 
on by the magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh. 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy, disagreeable sen¬ 
sations.—Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan 
banks ! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom, unin¬ 
terrupted except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! 
That love-kindling eye must beam on another, not on me ; that 
graceful form must bless another’s arms, not mine ! 

Kelso.—Dine with the farmer’s club—all gentlemen talking of high 
matters—each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds’ value, 
and attempts the fox-huntings in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, 
one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainlie’s, to lie—Mr. Ker, a most gen¬ 
tlemanly, clever, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children 
—his manner astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir,in Kil- 





684 


THE BORDER TOUR. 


marnock—everything in Mr. Ker’s most elegant—he offers to accom¬ 
pany me in my English tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don—a pretty 
clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine lady. A verj 
wet day. . . . Sleep at Stodrig again; and set out for Melrose—visit 
Dryburgh, a fine old ruined abbey—still bad weather—cross Leader, 
and come up Tweed to Melrose—dine there, and visit that far-famed 
glorious ruin—come to Selkirk, up Ettrick ; the whole country here¬ 
about, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. 

Monday.—Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity 
of the palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some Gallo¬ 
way whey, I here remain till to-morrow. Saw Elibanks and Elibrses, 
on the other side of the Tweed. 

Tuesday.— tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr. Horsburgh. 
Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee. Proposal for a 
four-horse team, to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland ; Logan 
of Logan, Fittiefurr ; Ballantine of Hollowlee, Forewynd ; Horsburgh of 
Horsburgh. Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the 
birth-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer—saw the 
ruins of his castle—come to Berrywell. 

Wednesday.—T>me at Dunse with the farmer’s club-company—impos¬ 
sible to do them justice. Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. 
Meikle a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills. 

T/wrsda?/.—Breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a 
famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian 
prince. A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie and his 
sister to Mr. Thomson’s, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and 
has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert 
Ainslie’s. Company—Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. 
Thomson’s, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer in the 
neighborhood. 

Friday. —Ride to Berwick—an idle town, rudely picturesque. Meet 
Lord Errol in walking round the walls—his lordship’s flattering notice 
of me. Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant—nothing particular in com¬ 
pany or conversation. Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country, 
to Eyemouth—sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve’s. 

Saturday. —Spend the day at Mr. Grieve’s—made a royal arch mason 
of St. Abb’s Lodge. Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, 
warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow—takes a hearty glass, and sings a 
good song. Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good 







THE BORDER TOUR. 


685 


fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all kinds 
pays tithes at Eyemouth. 

Sunday.—A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to 
Dunbar. The Miss Grieves very good girls—my hardship’s heart got a 
brush from Miss Betsey. 

Mr. William Grieve’s attachment to the family-circle so fond, that 
when he is out, which by-the-bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed 

till he see if all his sisters are sleeping well- Pass the famous Abbey 

of Coldingham, and Pease-bridge. Call at Mr. Sheriff’s, where Mr. A. 
and I dine. Mr. S. talkative and conceited. I talk of love to Nancy 
the whole evening, while her brother escorts home some companions 
like himself. Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being 
in the neighborhood, comes to Mr. Sheriff’s to breakfast—takes me to 
see his fine scenery on the stream of Dunglass—Dunglass the most ro¬ 
mantic, sweet place I ever saw—Sir James and his lady a pleasant 
happy couple. He points out a walk for which he has an uncommon 
respect, as it was made by an aunt of his, to whom he owes much. 

Miss-will accompany me to Dunbar, by way of making a parade 

of me as a sweetheart of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old 
cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; a rusty old side-saddle, 
without girth or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth ; 
herself as fine as hands could make her, in cream-colored riding 
clothes, hat and feather, etc. I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the 
devil, and almost shake her to pieces on old Jolly—get rid of her by 
refusing to call at her uncle’s with her. 

Passed through the most glorious corn-country I ever saw, till I 
reach Dunbar, a neat little town.—Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent 
merchant and most respectable character, but undescribable, as he ex¬ 
hibits no marked traits. Mrs. Fall a genius in painting; fully more 
clever in the fine arts and sciences than my friend Lady Wauchope, 
without her consummate assurance of her own abilities.—Call with 
Mr. Robinson (who, by the bye, I find to be a worthy, much-respected 
man, very modest; warm, social heart, which with less good sense 
than his would be perhaps, with the children of prim precision and 
pride, rather inimical to that respect which is man’s due from man) — 
with him I call on Miss Clark, a maiden, in the Scotch phrase, “ guid 
enough, but no brent new”: a clever woman, with tolerable preten¬ 
sions to remark and wit; while time had blown the blushing bud of 
bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. She wanted to 
see what sort of raree show an author was, and to let him know, that 
though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute of people 
of parts. 




686 


THE BORDER TOUR. ' 


Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee’s, a farmer of great 
note. Mr. Lee, an excellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; 
warm-hearted and chatty—a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee 
detains me till next morning. Company at dinner—my Rev. acquaint¬ 
ance Dr. Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow ; two sea-lieuten- 
nts ; a cousin of the landlord’s, a fellow whose looks are of that kind 
which deceived me in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived 
me—a goodly handsome figure and face, which incline one to give 
.hem credit for parts which they have not ; Mr. Clarke, a much clev- 
rer fellow, but whose looks, a little cloudy, and his appearance, 
rather ungainly, with an every-day observer may prejudice the opinion 
against him ; Dr. Brown, a medical young gentleman from Dunbar, a 
fellow whose face and manners are open and engaging. Leave Skate- 

raw for Dunse next day, along with Collector-, a lad of slender 

abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humored, the 
sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at Berrywell. Heavenly powers, who 
know the weakness of human hearts, support mine ! What happiness 
must I see only to remind me that I cannot enjoy it! 

Lammermuir hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild. Dine 
with the farmers’ club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden 
there, but nothing worth remembrance when the following circum¬ 
stance is considered—I walk into Dunse before dinner, and out to 
Berrywell in the evening with Miss Ainslie—how ill-bred, how frank, 
how good she is. Charming Rachael! may thy bosom never be wrung 
by the evils of this life of sorrows, or by the villainy of this world’s 
sons ! 

Thursday, —Mr. Ker and I set out to dine at Mr. Hood’s on our way 
to England. 

I am taken extremely ill with strong feverish symptoms, and take a 
servant of Mr. Hood’s to watch me all night—embittering remorse 
scares my fancy at the gloomy forebodings of death. I am determined 
to live for the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the ap¬ 
proach of death : I am sure I could meet him with indifference, but 
for “ the something beyond the grave.” Mr. Hood agrees to accom¬ 
pany us to England if we will wait till Sunday. 

Friday.—1 go with Mr. Hood to see the roup of an unfortunate 
farmer’s stock—rigid economy and decent industry, do you preserve 
me from being the principal dramatis persona in such a scene of 
horror! 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the 
evening to take farewell of my hardship. This day I feel myself 









THE BORDER TOUR. 


687 


warm with sentiments of gratitude to the Great Preserver of men, 
who has kindly restored me to health and strength once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young friend Douglas Ainslie, a sweet, 
modest, clever young fellow. 

Sunday, 27th May. —Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a 
wild country till I reach Alnwick—Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke 
of Northumberland, furnished in a most princely manner.—A Mr. 
Wilkin, agent of his Grace’s, shows us the house and policies—Mr. 
Wilkin a discreet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. —Come, still through by-ways, to Warkworth, where we 
dine. Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated very pictur¬ 
esque, with Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat of an old mon¬ 
astery, facing it a little in the sea ; and the small but romantic river 
Coquet running through it. Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little 
town, and on next day to Newcastle. Meet with a very agreeable, 
sensible fellow, a Mr. Chattox, who shows us a great many civilities, 
and who dines and sups with us. 

Wednesday. —Left Newcastle early in the morning, and rode over a 
fine country to Hexham to breakfast—from Hexham to Wardrue, the 
celebrated Spa, where we slept. 

Thursday, —Reach Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs. Hood and Ker—a hiring day in Longtown—I am un¬ 
commonly happy to see so many young folks enjoying life. I come to 
Carlisle. (Meet a strange enough romantic adventure by the way, in 
falling in with a girl and her married sister ; the girl after some over¬ 
tures of gallantry on my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and 
offers to take me in for a Gretna-green affair. I not being such a gull 
as she imagines, make an appointment with her, by way of vive la 
bagatelle, to hold a conference on it when we reach town. I meet her in 
town and give her a brush of caressing and a bottle of cider ; butfind- 
ing herself 2 mpew frompe in her man she sheers off.) Next day I 
meet my good friend Mr. Mitchell, and walk with him round the 
town and its environs, and through his printing works, etc.—four or 
five hundred people employed, many of them women and children. 
Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle. Come by the coast to 
Annan. Overtaken on the way by curious old fish of a shoemaker, 
and miner from Cumberland mines. 

[Here the Manuscript abruptly terminates.] 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 


[Nicol, Burns’s companion on his Highland expedition, was then an 
under teacher in the High School of Edinburgh. He was a Dumfries¬ 
shire man, of humble birth, possessed considerable natural ability and 
scholarship, but was of a somewhat coarse, hot-tempered character.] 

2Uh August, 1787.— I leave Edinburgh for a northern tour, in com¬ 
pany with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose originality of humor 
promises me much entertainment. Linlithgow—a fertile improved 
country—West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the 
farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion the rudeness and 
stupidity of the peasantry. This remark I have made all over the 
Lothians, Merse, Roxburgh, etc. For this, among other reasons, I think 
that a man of romantic taste, a “ man of feeling,” will be better pleased 
with the poverty, but intelligent minds, of the peasantry in Ayrshire 
(peasantry they are all below the justice of the peace) than the opulence 
of a club of Merse farmers, when at the same time he considers the 
vandalism of their plough-folks, etc. I carry this idea so far, that an 
uninclosed, half-improved country is to me actually more agreeable, 
and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, than a country cultivated 
like a garden.— Soil about Linlithgow light and thin. The town 
carries the appearance of rude, decayed grandeur—charmingly rural, 
retired situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, but melancholy, 
ruin—sweetly situated on a small elevation, by the brink of a loch. 
Shown the room where the beautiful, injured Mary Queen of Scots was 
born—a pretty good old Gothic church. The infamous stool of 
repentance standing, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. 

What a poor, pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship; 
dirty, narrow, and squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish grandeur 
such as Linlithgow, and much more, Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if 
judiciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, 
both in religious and civil matters.—Dine—go to my friend Smith’s, at 
Avon, printfield—find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sensible, 
modest, good body ; as useful but not so ornamental as Fielding’s Miss 
Western—not rigidly polite d la Frangais, but easy, hospitable, and 
housewifely. 

An old lady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, whom I promise to call 

for in Paisley : like old lady W-, and still more like Mrs. C-, her 

688 





THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 


689 


conversation is pregnant with strong sense and just remark, but, like 
them, a certain air of self-importance and a duresse in the eye seem 
to indicate, as the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, that “ she had 
a mind o’ her ain.” 

Pleasant view of Dumfermline and the rest of the fertile coast of 
Fife, as we go down to that dirty, ugly place. Burrowstones—see a 
horse-race and call on a friend of Mr. Nicol’s, a Bailie Cowan, of whom 
I know too little to attempt his portrait—come through the rich carse 
of Falkirk to pass tlie night. Falkirk nothing remarkable except the 
tomb of Sir John the Graham, over which, in the succession of time, 
four stones have been placed. Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the 
Piets, now a small village in the neigliborhood of Falkirk. Cross the 
grand canal to Carron—come past Larbert, and admire a fine monu¬ 
ment of cast-iron erected by Mr. Bruce, the African traveler, to his 
wife. 

Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine taste—a charming amphi¬ 
theater bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to 
Dunipace.—The Carron running down^the bosom of the whole makes 
it one of the most charming little prospects I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie—Mr. Monro an excellent, worthy old man— 
Miss Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet young woman, much resem¬ 
bling Mrs. Grierson. Come to Bannockburn—shown the old house where 
James III. finished so tragically his unfortunate life. The field of 
Bannockburn—the hole where glorious Bruce set his standard. Here 
no Scot can pass uninterested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, 
heroic countrymen coming o’er the hill and down upon the plunderers 
of their country, the murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and 
just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they 
approach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe ! I see them meet 
in gloriously-triumphant congratulation on the victorious field, exult¬ 
ing in their heroic royal leader and rescued liberty and independence! 
—Come to Stirling. 

Monday. — Go to Harvieston. Go to see Caudron linn, and Rumbling 
brig, and Deil’s mill. Return in the evening. Supper—Messrs. Doig, 
the schoolmaster ; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the castle. Doig a 
queerish figure, and something of a pedant—Bell a joyous fellow, who 
sings a good song—Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man, with a 
dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Morning. — Breakfast with Captain Forrester—Ochel hills— 
Devon river—Forth and Tieth—Allan river—Strathallan, a fine 
country, but little improved—cross Earn to Crieff—dine, and go to 
Arbruchil—cold reception at Arbruchil—a most romantically pleasant 




690 


THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 


ride up Earn, by Auchtertyre and Comrie, to Arbruchil—sup at 
Crieff. 

Wednesday Morning. —Leave Crieff—Glen Amond—Amond river— 
Ossian’s grave—Loch Fruoch—Glenquaich—landlord and landlady re¬ 
markable characters—Taymouth described in rhyme—meet the Hon. 
Charles Townshend. 

Thursday. —Come do\vn Tay to Dunkeld—Glenlyon House—Lyon 
river—Druids’ temple-;=rthree circles of stones, the outermost sunk ; the 
second has thirteen stones remaining, the innermost has eight ; two 
large detached ones, like a gate, to the south-east—say prayers in it— 
pass Taybridge—Aberfeldy—described in rhyme—Castle Menzies— 
Inver—Dr. Stewart—sup. 

Friday. —Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard to Birnam top—fine 
prospect down Tay—Craigieburn hills—hermitage on the Branwater. 
with a picture of Ossian—breakfast with Dr. Stewart—Neil Gow plays— 
a short, stout-built, honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair shed 
on his honest social brow ; an interesting face, marking strong sense, 
kind openheartedness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity—visit his 
house—Marget Gow. 

Ride up Tummel river to Blair—Fascally a beautiful romantic nest— 
wild grandeur of the pass of Gilliecrankie—visit the gallant Lord 
Dundee’s stone. 

Blair—Sup with the Duchess—easy and happy from the manners of 
the family—confirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. 

Saturday, —Visit the scenes round Blair—fine, but spoiled with bad 
taste—Tilt and Gairie rivers—Falls on the Tilt—heather seat—ride in 
company with Sir William Murray and Mr. Walker, to Loch Tummel— 
meanderings of the Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan 
Robertson’s estate, from Loch Rannach to Loch Tummel. Dine at 
Blair : company—General Murray ; Captain Murray, an honest tar ; 
Sir William Murray, an honest, worthy man, but tormented with the 
hypochondria: Mrs. Graham, beZZe et aimable; Miss Cathcart; Mrs. 
Murray, a painter ; Mrs. King ; Duchess and fine family, the Marquis, 
Lords James, Edward, and Robert. Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and 
children dance. Sup—Mr. Graham of Fintry. 

Come up the Garrie—Falls of Bruar—Daldecairoch—Dalwhinnie— 
dine—snow on the hills seventeen feet deep—no corn from Loch Gairie 
to Dalwhinnie—cross the Spey, and come down the stream to Pitnin— 
Straths rich— les environs picturesque—Craigow hill—Ruthven of 
Badenoch—barracks—wild and magnificent—Rothemurche on the 
other side, and Glenmore—Grant of Rothemurche’s poetry, told me by 










THE HIGHLAND TOUR, 


691 


the Duke of Gordon—Strathspey, rich and romantic. Breakfast at 
Aviemore, a wild spot—dine at Sir James Grant’s—Lady Grant a sweet, 
pleasant body—come through mist and darkness to Dulsie to lie. 

Tuesday. —Findhorn river—rocky banks—come on to Castle Cawdor, 
where Macbeth murdered King Duncan—saw the bed in which King 
Duncan was stabbed—dine at Kilravock—Mrs. Rose, sen., a true chief¬ 
tain’s wife—Fort George—Inverness. 

Wednesday. —Loch Ness—Braes of Ness—General’s hut—Falls of 
Fyers—Urquhart Castle and Strath. 

Thursday. —Come over Culloden Muir—reflections on the field of 
battle—breakfast at Kilravock—old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm 
heart, strong passions, and honest pride, all in an uncommon degree— 
Mrs. Rose, jun., a little milder than the mother ; this perhaps owing to 
her being younger—Mr. Grant, minister at Calder, resembles Mr. Scott 
at Inverleithing—Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to Kildrum- 
mic—two young ladies : Miss Rose, who sung two Gaelic songs, beau¬ 
tiful and lovely ; Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and amiable; 
both of them gentle, mild, the sweetest creatures on earth, and happi¬ 
ness be with them !—Dine at Nairn—fall in with a pleasant enough 
gentleman. Dr. Stewart, who had been long abroad with his father in 
the Forty-five; aijd Mr. Falconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted 
Norland, and a Non juror—Brodie-house to lie. 

Friday. —Forres—famous stone at Forres—Mr. Brodie tells me that 
the muir where Shakespeare lays Macbeth’s witch-meeting is still 
haunted—that the country folks won’t pass it by night . . . 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey—a grander effect at first glance tha*n 
Melrose, but not near so beautiful—cross Spey to Fochabers—fine 
palace, worthy of the generous proprietor. Dine—company, Duke and 
Duchess, Ladies Charlotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie and Lady, 

Mr. Gordon and Mx.-, a clergyman, a venerable aged figure : the 

Duke makes me happier than ever great man did—noble, princely, 
yet mild, condescending, and affable, gay and kind—the Duchess witty 
and sensible—God bless them ! 

Come to Cullen to lie—hitherto the country is sadly poor and unim- 
proven. 

Come to Aberdeen—meet with Mr, Chalmers, printer, a facetious 
fellow—Mr. Ross, a fine fellow, like Professor Tytier—Mr. Marshall, one 
of the poetce minores —Mr, Sheriffs, author of “ Jamie and Bess,” a little 
decrepit body with some abilities—Bishop Skinner, a Nonjuror, son of 
the author of “ Tullochgorum,” a man whose mild venerable manner 
is the most marked of any in so young a man—Professor Gordon, a 
food-natured, jolly-looking professor—Aberdeen, a lazy town—near 
^ 18 —Bums—DD 



692 


THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 


Stonhive, the coast a good deal romantic—meet my relations—Robert 
Burns, writer, in Stonhive, one of those who love fun, a gill, and a 
punning joke, and have not a bad heart—his wife a sweet hospitable 
body, without any affectation of what is called town-breeding. 

Tuesday .—Breakfast with Mr. Burns—lie at Lawrence Kirk—album 

library—Mrs.-a jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow—Howe 

of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still uninclosed country. 

Wednesday .—Cross North Esk river, and a rich country to Craigow. 


Go to Montrose, that finely-situated, handsome town—breakfast at 
Muthie, and sail along that wild rocky coast, and see the famous 
caverns, particularly the Gairiepot—land and dine at Arbroath—stately 
ruins of Arbroath Abbey—come to Dundee, through a fertile country— 
Dundee a low-lying but pleasant town—old steeple—Tayfritli—Broughty 
Castle, a finely situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 

Friday. —Breakfast with the Miss Scotts—Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. 
Greenfield ; my hardship almost in love with her—come through the 
rich harvests and fine hedge-rows of the carse of Gowrie, along the 
romantic margin of the Grampian hills, to Perth—fine, fruitful, hilly, 
woody country round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. —Leave Perth—come up Strathearn to Endermay 
—fine, fruitful, cultivated strath—the scene of “ Bessie Bell and Mary 
Gray,” near Perth—fine scenery on the banks of the May—Mrs. 
Belcher, gawcie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, etc.—lie 
at Kinross—reflections in a fit of the colic. 

Sunday. —Pass through a cold, barren country to Queensferry— dine 
—cross the ferry, and on to Edinburgh. 




GLOSSARY 


A’, all. 

Aback, away from. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

A boon, above., 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Abusin’, abusing. 

Acquent, acquainted. 

A’-day, all day. 

Adle, putrid water. 

Advisement, advice. 

Ae, one ; only. 

Aff, off. 

Afif-hand, at once. 

Aff-loof, extemporaneously. 

Afore, before. 

Aften, often. 

A-gley, off the right line. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Aik, an oak. 

Aiken, oaken. 

Ain, own. 

Air, early. 

Airl-penny, earnest money. 

Airies, earnest money. 

Aim, iron. 

Aims, irons. 

Airt, direction ; the point from which the 
wind blows ; to direct. 

Airted, directed. 

Aith, an oath. 

Aiths, oaths. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alee, to the one side* 

Alakel alas! 

Alang, along. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An’, and. 

An’s, and is. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one. 

Anes, ones. 

Anither, another. 

Artfu’, artful. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, obliquely; aslant, 

Asteer, astir. 

A’tnegither, altogether. 

Athort, athwart. 

At ween, between. 

Aught, eight. 

Aughteen, eighteen. 

Aughtlins, anything, in the least, 

Auld, old. 

Auld’s, as old as. 


Aulder, older. 

Auldfarran, sagaciov^» 

Aumous, alms. 

Ava, at all. 

Awa, away. 

Awe, to owe. 

Awee, a little time, 

Awfu’, awftd. 

Awkart, awkward. 

Awnie, bearded. 

Aye, always. 

Ayont, beyond. 

BA’, a ball. 

Babie-clouts, baby~clothes. 

Backets, buckets. 

Bade, endured; desired. 

Baggie (dim. of bag), the stomach. 
Bainie, bony, muscular. 

Bairns, children. 

Bairntime, a family of children. 

Baith, both. 

Bakes, biscuits. 

Ballats, ballads. 

Ban’, band. 

Banes, bones. 

Bang, a stroke. An unco bang, a hea.v% 
stroke or effort. 

Ban net, a bonnet. 

Bannock, a cake of oatmeal bread. 
Bardie, dim. of bard. 

Barefit, barefooted. 

Barkit, barked. 

Barkin, barking. 

Barm, yeast. 

Barmie, of, or like barm. 

Batch, a party. 

Batts, the botts. 

Baucki>bird, the bat. 

Baudrons, a cat. 

Banks, cross-beams. 

Bauk-en’, end of a bank or cross-beam. 
Bauld, bold. 

Bauldly, boldly. 

Baumy, balmy. 

Bawk, an open space in a cornfield, gen, 
erally a rtdge left untilled. 

Baws’nt, having a white stripe dovm the 
face. 

Bawtie, a familiar name for a dog. 

Be’t, be it. 

Bear, barley. 

Beastie, dim. of beast. 

Beets, adds fuel to fire. 

Befa’, befall. 

Behint, behind. 

Belang, belong to. 

Belang’d, belonged to. 


^93 





694 


GLOSSARY 


field, bald. 

fiellum, a noise, an attack. 
fiellyfu’, bellyful. 
fiely ve, by and by. 
fien, into the spence or parlor. 
fienmost bore, the innermost recess, or 
hole. 

fiethankit, the grace after meat. 
fieuk, a book. 

Devil’s pictur’d beuks, cards. 
fiicker, a wooden disha few steps un¬ 
wittingly. 

fiid, to wish, or ask. 
fiide, to stand, to endure. 
fiiel, a habitation. 
fiield, shelter. 

fiien, plentiful ; comfortably. 
fiig, to build. 
fiigg, to build. 
fiigs, builds. 
fiiggin, building. 
fiill, a bull. 
fiillie, a good fellow. 
fiillies, young fellows. 
fiings, heaps of anything, such as turnips, 
potatoes. 

fiirdies, dim. of birds. 
fiirk, the birch. 
fiirks, birches. 
fiirken, birchen. 

fiirken shaw, a small birch toood. 

fiirkie, a spirited fellow. 

fiirring, whirring. 

fiirses, bristles. 

fiit, crisis. 

fiizzard gled, a kite. 

fiizz, a bustle. 

Bizzy busy. 

Bizzie, busy. 

Bizzies, buzzes. 

Black Bonnet, the elder. 

Blae, blue ; sharp, keen. 

Blastie, a term of contempt. 

Blastit, blasted, withered. 

Blate, shamefaced. 

Blather, bladder. 

Blaud, to slap ; a quantity of anything. 
Blaudin’, pelting. 

Blaw, to blow ; to brag. 

Blaws, blows. 

Blawn, blown. 

Blawn’t, had blown it. 

Bleatin, bleating. 

Bleerit, bleared. 

Bleez^, a blaze. 

Bleezin, blazing. 

Blellum, an idle talking fellow. 

Blether, thi. bladder ; nonsense. 

Blethers, nonsense. 

Bleth’rin, talking idly. 
filin’, blind. 

Blins, blinds. 

Blin’t, blinded. 

Blink, a blink o’ rest, a short period of 
repose ; a short time; a moment; a 
look. 

Blinks, looks smilingly. 

Blinkers, a term of contempt; pretty girls. 
Blinkin, smirking. 

Blirt and bleary, fits of crying. 

Blitter, the mire snipe. 


Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get 
annually on the king's birthday a blue 
coat or gown with a badge. 

Blude, blood. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bludie, bloody. 

Bluidy, bloody. 

Blume, bloom. 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person. 
Blypes, large pieces. 

Booked, vomited. 

Boddle, a small coin. 

Boggie, dim. of bog. 

Bogles, f ’ ^s. 

Bonnie, beautiful. 

Bonnocks, thick cakes of oatmeal bread. 
Boord, board. 

Boortrees, elder shrubs. 

Boost, rnttsf needs. 

Bore, a hole or rent. 

Bouk, a corpse. 

Bouses, drinks. 

Bow-hough’d, crook-thighed. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bow’t, crooked. 

Brae, the slope of a hill. 

Braid, broad. 

Braid Scots, broad Scotch. 

Braid-claith, broad-cloth. 

Braik, a kind of harrow. 

Braing’t, reeled forivard. 

Brak, did break. 

Brak’s, broke his. 

Brankio, wtiL attired. 

Branks, c kuid of wooden curb for horses. 
Brany, brandy. 

Brash, sickness. 

Brato, rags. 

Brattle, a short race. 

Braw, handsome. 

Brawly, perfectly. 

Braxies, morbid sheep. 

Brer.stie, dim. of breast. 

Breastit, did spring up or forward. 
Brechan, a horse-collar. 

Breckan, fern. 

Bree, juice, liquid. 

Breeks, breeches. 

Brent, straight; smooth, unwrinkled. 
Brewin, brc''nng. 

Brief, a writing. 

Brig, bridge. 

Brither, brother. 

Brithers, brothers. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogue, a trick. 

Broo, water; broth. 

Brooses, races at country iveddings who 
shall first reach the bridegroom's house 
on returning from church. 

Browst, as much malt liquor as is brewed 
at a time. 

Browster-wives, ale-house wives. 

Brugh, burgh. 

Brughs, boroughs. 

Brulzie, a broil. 

Brunstane, brimstone. 

Brunt, burned. 

Brust, burst. 

Buckie, dim. of Imck. 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 







GLOSSARY, 


695 


Buff, to beat. 

Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the 
sheep in the pens to be milked. 

Buirdly, strong, imposing-looking, well- 
knit. 

Buke, book. 

Bum, to hum. 

Bum-clock, a beetle. 

Bumming, making a noise like a bee. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 

Bunker, a chest. 

Burdies, damsels. 

Bure, bore, did bear. 

Burns, streams. 

Burnie, dim. of burn. 

Burnewin, i. e. burn the wind, a black¬ 
smith. 

Bur-thistle, the spear-thistle. 

Busking, dressing, decorating. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Busks, adorns. 

Buss, a bush. 

Bussle, a bustle. 

But, without. 

But an’ ben, kitchen and parlor. 

By, past ; apart. 

By attour, in the neighborhood ; out¬ 
side. 

Byke, a multitude ; a bee-hive. 

CA’, to drive ,* a call. 

Ca’d, named ; driven. 

Ca’s, calls. 

Ca’t, called. 

Ca’ throu’, to push forivard. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, a fellow. 

Caff, chaff. 

Cairds, tinkers. 

Calf-ward, a small inclosure for calves. 
Callans, boys. 

Caller, fresh. 

Callet, a trull. 

Cam, came. 

Cankert, cankered. 

Cankrie, cankered. 

Canna, cannot. 

Cannie, carefully, softly. 

Cannilie, dexterously, gently. 

Cantie, in high spirits. 

Cantin’, canting. 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell. 

Cape-stane, cope-stone. 

Cap’rin, capering. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, a carle. 

Carlie, dim. of carle. 

Carlin, an old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Car tie, dim. of cart. 

Caudrons, caldrons. 

Cauf, a calf. 

Cauk and heel, chalk and red clay, 

Cauld, cold. 

Caulder, colder. 

Caups, wooden drinking vessels. 

Causey, causeway. 

Cavie, a hen-coop, 

Chamer, chamber. 

Change-house, a tavern. 

Chap, a fellow. 


Chapman, a pedler. 

Chaup, a blow. 

Cheek for chow, cheek by jowl. 

Cheep, chirp. 

Cheerfu’, cheerful. 

Chiels, young fellows. 

Chimla, chimney. 

Chimlie, chimney. 

Chittering, trembling with cold. 

Chows, chews. 

Chuckie, dim. of chuck. 

Christen die, Christendom. 

Chuffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a hamlet. 

Claise, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Claith’d, clothed. 

Claithing, clothing. 

Clamb, clomb. 

Clankie, a sharp stroke. 

Clap, a clapper. 

Clark, clerkly, pertaining to erudition. ’ 
Clarkit, wrote. 

Clarty, dirty. 

Clash, idle talk ; to talk. 

Clatter, to talk idly. Kintra clatter, the 
talk of the country. 

Claught, caught. 

Claughtin, catching at anything greedily. 
Claut, to snatch at, to lay hold of a quan¬ 
tity scraped together by niggardliness. 
Clautet, scraped. 

Claver, clover. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, scratch. 

Clean, handsome. 

Cleckin, a brood. 

Cleed, to clothe. 
deeding, clothing. 

Cleek, to seize. 

Cleekit, linked themselves. 

Clegs, gad-flies. 

Clink, to rhyme ; money. 

Clinkin, sitting down suddenly. 
Clinkumbell, the church bell-ringer. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 
Clockin-time, hatching-time. 

Cloot, the hoof. 

Clootie, Satan. 

Clours, bumps or swellings after a blow. 
Clouts, clothes. 

Clout, to patch ; a patch. 

Clud, a cloud. 

Cluds, multitudes. 

Clue, a portion of cloth or yarn. 

Clunk, the sound emitted by liquor when 
shaken in a cask or bottle, when the cask 
or bottle is half empty. 

Coatie, dim. of coat. 

Coaxin, coaxing. 

Coble, a fishing-boat. 

Cock, to erect. 

Cocks, good fellows. 

Cockie, dim. of cock, a good fellow. 

Cod, a pillow. 

Co’er, to cover, 

Coft, bought. 

Cog, a wooden dish. 

Coggie, dim. of cog. 

I Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire^ 






696 


GLOSSARY, 


so called, saith tradition, from Coil, or 
Coila, a Pictish monarch. 

Collie, a country dog. 

Collieshangie, an uproar, a quarrel. 
Coramans, commandments. 

Cornin’, coming. 

Compleenin, complaining. 

Converse, conversation. 

Cood, the cud. 

Coofs, fools, ninnies. 

Cookit, that appeared and disappeared 
by fits. 

Coost, did cast. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish. Fowls 
whose legs are clad with feathers are 
also said to be cootie. 

Corbies, crows. 

Corn’t, fed toith oats. 

Corss, the market-place. 

Couldna, could not. 

Counted, considered. 

Countra, country. 

Couthie, kindly, loving. 

Cowe, t > terrify ; to lop ; a fright. Cowe 
the cadie, terrif'j the fellow. 

Cowp the cran, to tumble over. 

Cowpit, tumbled. 

Cowpet, tumbled. 

Cow’rin, cowering. 

Cowr, to cower. 

Cour, to cower. 

Cowt, a colt. 

Cowte, a colt. 

Cozie, cozy. 

Crabbit, crabbed. 

Crack, a story or harangue ,* talk. 
Crackin, conversing, gossiping. 

Craft, a croft. 

Craft rig, ofr croft ridge. 

Craig, the throat. 

Craigie, dim, of craig, the throat. 

Craigs, crags. 

Craigy, craggy. 

Craiks, landrails. 

Crambo-clink, rhymes. 

Crambo-jingle, rhymes. 

Crankous, irritated. 

Cranreuch, hoar frost. 

Crap, to crop. 

Craps, crops. 

Craw, to crow. 

Crawlin, crawling. 

Creel, my senses wad be in a creel, to he 
crazed, to be fascinated. 

Creepie-chair, the chair or stool of re¬ 
pentance. 

Creeshie, greasy. 

Crocks, old sheep. 

Croods, coos, 

Crooded, cooed. 

Cronie, a comrade. 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan. 
Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Crouse, gleefully, with spirit. 

Crowdie, porridge. 

Crowdie-time, breakfast-time. 
Crummock, a staff with a crooked head. 
Crump, crisp. 

Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 
Cuddle, to fondle. 

Cuifs, blockheads, ninnies. 


Cummock, a short staff with a crooked 
head. 

Cunnin, cunning. 

Curch, a female head-dress. 

Curchie, a curtsey. 

Curmurring, a rumbling noise. 

Curpin, the crupper. 

Curple, the crupper. 

Cushats, wood-pigeons. 

Custock, the center of a stem of cabbage. 
Cutty, short, bob-tailed. 

Cut, fashion, shape. 

DADDIE, father. 

Daez’t, stupefied. 

Daffln, merriment. 

Daft, foolish. 

Dalis, deals of wood for sitting on. 
Daimen-icker, an ear of corn now and 
then. 

Daisie, the daisy. 

Damies, dim. of dames. 

Dam, water. 

Dan ton, to subdue. 

Dang, knocked, pushed. 

Dappl’t, dappled. 

Darin, daring. 

Dai klings, darkling. 

Daud, to pelt. 

Daudin’, pelting. 

Dauntingly, dauntlessly. 

Daur, to dare. 

Daur’t, dared. 

Daur na, dare not. 

Daut, to fondle, to make much of. 

Dawte, to fondle. 

Daw tit, fondled, caressed. 

aurk, a day's labor. 

Daviely, spiritless. 

Davie’s, King David's. 

Daw, dawn. 

Dawin, the dawning. 

Dawds, lumps, large pieces. 

Dead-sweer, but little inclined. 

Deave, to deafen. 

Deils, devils. 

Deil ma care, devil may care. 

Deil haet, devil a-thing. 

Deleerit, delirious. 

Delvin, delving. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Deservin, deserving. 

Deservin’t, deseiwing of it. 

Deuk, a duck. 

Devel, a stunning blow. 

Dictionar, a dictionary. 

Diddle, to strike or jog. 

Differ, difference. 

Dight, cleaned from chaffto wipe aivay. 
Din, dun in color. 

Dine, dinner-time. 

Ding, to surpass ; be pushed or upset. 
Dings, knocks. 

Dink, neat, trim. 

Dinna, do not. 

Dinner’d, dined. 

Dirl, a vibrating blow; to vibrate. 

Dirl’d, executed with spirit. 

Disagreet, disagreed. 

Dizzen, a dozen. 

Dizzie, dizzy. 














GLOSSARY, 


697 


Dochter, daughter. 

Doin’, doing. 

Doited, stupefied. 

Donsie, unlucky. 

Dooked, ducked. 

Dools, sorroivs. 

Doolfu’, sorrowful. 

Doos, pigeons. 

Dorty, supercilious, huffy. 

Douce, grave, sober. 

Doucely, soberly. 

Doudled, dandled. 

Dought, could, might, 

Dought na, did not, or did not choose to, 
Doup, the backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 
Dour, stubborn. 

Doure, stubborn. 

Douser, more decorous. 

Dow, do, can, 

Dowe, do, can. 

Dowff, pithless, silly. 

Dowie, low-spirited. 

Downa bide, cannot stand. 

Downa do, a phrase signifying impotence. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Doytin, ivalking stupidly. 

Dozen’d, imj)otent, torpid. 

Dozin, stupefied, impotent. 

Draiglet, draggled. 

Drants, sour humors. 

Drap, drop, a small quantity. 

Drappie, dim. of drap. 

Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling, of a slow enuncia¬ 
tion. 

Draw’t, draiv it. 

Dree, to endure. 

Dreeping, dripping. 

Dreigh, tedious. 

Dribble, drizzle. 

Driddle, to play ; to move slowly. 

Drift, a drove. Fell aff the drift, wan¬ 
dered from his companions. 

Droddum, the breech. 

Drone, the bagpipe. 

Droop rumpl’t, that droops at the crupper. 
Drouk, to moisten. 

Droukit, wet, drenched. 

Drouth, thirst. 

Drouthy, thirsty. 

Druken, drunken. 

Drumly, muddy. 

Drummock, meal and water mixed raw. 
Drunt, pet, sour humor. 

Dry, thirsty. 

Dubs, small ponds. 

Duds, garments. 

Duddie, ragged. 

Duddies, garments. 

Dung* knocked. 

Dunted, beat, thumped. 

Dunts, blows, knocks. 

Durk, a dirk. 

Dusht, pushed by a ram or ox. 

Dwalling, dwelling. 

Dwalt dwelt. 

Dyvors, bankrupts, disi'eputable fellows. 

EARNS, eagles. 

Eastin, eastern. 


Ee, eye ; to watch. 

Een, eyes. 

E’e brie, the eyebrow. 

E’en, evening. 

E’enins, evenings. 

Eerie, scared, dreading spirits, 

Eild, age. 

Eke, also. 

Elbucks, elbows. 

Eldritch, frightful. 

Eleckit, elected. 

Eller, an elder. 

En’, end. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Em’brugh, Edinburgh. 

Enow, enough. 

Ensuin, ensuing. 

Erse, Gaelic. 

Especial, especially. 

Ether-stane, adder-stone, j 
Ettle, design. 

Expeckit, expected. 

Expoc’, expect. 

Eydent, diligent. 

FA’, lot. 

Fa, fall. 

Face’t, faced. 

Faddom’t, fathomed. 

Fae, foe. 

Faem, foam. 

Faikit, bated. 

Failins, failings. 

Fair-fa’, a benediction. 

Fairin, a present, a reioard. 

Fairly, entirely, completely. 

Fallow, a felloio. 

Fa’n, have fallen. 

Fan’, found. 

Fand, found. 

Farls, cakes of oat-bread. 

Fash, trouble myself. 

Fash your thumb, trouble yourself in the 
least. 

Fash’t, troubled. 

Fashous, troublesome. 

Fasten-een, Fasten's-even. 

Fatt’rels, ribbon-ends. 

Faught, a fight. 

Fauld, a fold. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faulding slap, the gate of the fold. 

Faun, fallen. 

Fause, false. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, fault. 

Fautor, a transgressor. 

Fausont, seemly. 

Fearfu’, fearful. 

Feat, spruce. 

Fecht, to fight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, the greater portion. 

Feckly, mostly. 

Fecket, an under ivaistcoat with sleeves. 
Feckless, powerless, without pith. 

Feg, a fig. 

Feide, feud. 

Feirie, clever. 

Fell, the flesh immediately under the skin; 
keen, biting ; nippy, tasty. 






698 


GLOSSARY, 


Fen, a successful struggle, a shift. 

Fend, to keep off; to live comfortably. 
Ferlie, to wonder ; a term of contempt. 
Fetch’t, pulled intermittently. 

Fey, predestined. 

Fidge, to fidget. 

Fidgin-fain, fidgeting with eagerness. 

Fiel, soft, smooth. 

Fient, a petty oath. The fient a, the devil 
a bit of. 

Fier, healthy, sound ; brother, friend. 
Fiere, friend, comrade. 

Fillie, a filly. 

Fin’, find. 

Fissle, to fidget. 

Fit, foot. 

Fittie-lan, the near horse of the hindmost 
pair in the plough. 

Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fer¬ 
mentation. 

Fiattnii, flapping, fluttering. 

Flae, a flea. 

Flang, did fling or caper. 

Flannen, flannel. 

Flarin, flaring. 

Flatt’rin, flattering. 

Fleech’d, supplicated. 

Fleechin, supplicating. 

Fleesh, a fleece. 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke ; a sudden 
motion. 

Fleth’rin, flattering. 

Flewit, a sharp blow. 

Fley’d, scared. 

Flichterin’, fluttering. 

Flie, a fly. 

Flinders, shreds. 

Flinging, capering. 

Flingin-tree, a flail. 

Fliskit, fretted. 

Flit, remove. 

Flittering, fluttering. 

Flyte, to scold. 

Fodgel, squat or plump. 

Foor, to fare. 

Foord, a ford. 

Foorsday, late in the afternoon. 
Forbears, forefathers. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, worn-out, jaded. 

Forfoughten, fatigued. 

Forgather, to make acquaintance with. 
Forgather'd, met. 

Forgie, forgive. 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue. 

Forrit, forward. 

For’t, for it. 

Fother, fodder. 

Fou, fxdl; tipsy; a bushel. 

Foughten, troubled. 

Fouth, an abundance. 

Frae, from. 

Frammit, estranged. 

Freath, to froth. 

Fremit, strange, foreign. 

Frien’, friend. 

Fright, a person or thing of an extraor¬ 
dinary aspect. 

Fii’, full. 

Fud, the scut of the hare. 

Fuff’t, did blow. 


Fumblin’, awkward. 

Furder, furtherance. 

Farms, wooden forms or seats. 
Furnicator, fornicator. 

Furr-ahin, the hindmost horse on the 
right hand of the plough. 

Furrs, furrows. 

Fushionless, pithless. 

Fy, an exclamation of haste. 

Fyke, to be in a fuss about trifles. 

Fyle, to soil or dirty. 

Fyl’d, dirtied. 

GAB, to speak fluently ; the mouth. 

Gabs, tongues. 

Gae, go ; gave. 

Gaed, walked; went. 

Gaen, gone. 

Gaets, manners. 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth inserted 
at the bottom of a shift or robe. 

Gane, gone. 

Gang, to go. 

Gangrel, vagrant. 

Gapin, gaping. 

Gar, to make. 

Gar’t, made. 

Garten, garter. 

Gash, sagacious. 

Gashin. conversing. 

Gat, got. 

Gate, manner ; way or road. 

Gatty, gouty. 

Gaucie, comfortable looking. 

Gaud, the plough shaft. 

Gaudsman, a ploughboy, the boy who 
drives the horses in the plough. 

Gaun, going. 

Gaunted, yawned. 

Gawcie, jolly, large. 

Gawkies, foolish persons. 

Gaylies, pretty well. 

Gear, wealth, goods. Weel-hain’d gear, 
well saved ; drink. 

Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or 
scorn. 

Geds, pike. 

Gentles, great folks. 

Genty, slender. 

Geordie, George. The yellow letter’d 
Geordie, a guinea. 

Get, offspring. 

Ghaists, ghosts. 

Gie, give. 

Gied, gave. 

Gien, given. 

Gi’en, given. 

Gies, give us. 

Gif’, if. 

Giftie, dim. of gift. 

Giglets, playftd children. 

Gillie, dim. of gill. 

Gilpey, a young girl. 

Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 
Gin, if. 

Gipsie, gipsy. 

Girdle, a circular plate of iron for toast¬ 
ing cakes on the fire. 

Girn, to grin. 

Girrs, hoops. 

Gizz, a ivig. 















GLOSSARY. 


699 


Glaikit, thoughtless. 

Glaizie, glittering. 

Glamor, glamour. 

Glaum’d, grasped. 

Gled, a kite. 

Gleed, a live coal. 

Gleg, sharp ; cleverly, siviftly. 

Gleib, a glebe. 

Glib-gabbet, that speaks smoothly and 
readily. 

Glinted, glanced. 

Glintin, glancing. 

Gloamin, twilight. 

Gloamin-shot, a twilight interview. 

Glow ran, staring. 

Glowr’d, looked earnestly, stared. 

Glunch, a frown. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange. 

inquiring gaze, staring stupidly. 
Gotten, got. 

Go wan, the daisy. 

Gowany, daisied. 

Gowd, gold. 

Gowden, golden. 

Gowff’d, knocked hither and thither. 
Gowk, a foolish person. 

Gowling, howling. 

Graff, a grave. 

Grained, grinned. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for cleans 
ing stables. 

Graith, harness, field implements ; ac¬ 
coutrements. 

Granes, groans. 

Grape, to grope. 

Graped, groped. 

Grapit, groped. 

Grat, wept. 

Gratefu’, grateful. 

Graunie, grandmother. 

Gree, a prize ; to agree. 

Gree’t, agreed. 

Greet, to weep. 

Greetin, weeping. 

Griens, covets, longs for. 

Grievin, grieving. 

Grippet, gripped, caught hold of, 

Grissle, gristle. 

Grit, great. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Grumphie, the sow. 

Grun’, the ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the countenance ; a grunting 
noise. 

Grunzie, the mouth. 

Grushie, thick, of thriving growth. 
Grusome, ill favored. 

Grutten, wept. 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good. 

Gudeen, good even. 

Gudeman, goodman. 

Gudes, goods, merchandise. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-e’en, good even. 

Guid-mornin, good moruing. 

Guidfather, father-in-law. 

Guidwife, the mistress of the house ,* the 
landlady. 

Gully, a large knife. 

Gulravage, riot. 


Gumlie, muddy, discolored. 

Gumption, understanding. 

Gusty, tasteful. 

Gutcner, grandfather. 

HA’, hall. 

Ha’ Bible, hall-Bible. 

Ha’ folk, servants. 

Haddin, holding, inheritance. 

Hae, have here (in the sense of take). 
Haet, the least thing. Deil haet, an oath 
of negation. Damn’d haet, nothing. 
Ha’f, the half. 

Haff, the half. 

Haffets, the temples. 

Haffet locks, locks at the temples. 
Hafflins, partly. 

Hafflins-wise, almost half. 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses and moors. 
Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the 
stomach of a cow or sheep. 

Hain, to spare, to save. 

Hain’d, spared. 

Hairst, harvest. 

Haith, a petty oath. 

Haivers, idle talk. 

Hal’, hall. 

Hald, an abiding-place. 

Hale, whole, entire ; uninjured. Hale 
breeks, breeches without holes. 

Haly, holy. 

Hallan, a particular partition wall in a 
cottage. 

Hallions, cloions. common felloivs. 
Hallowmas, the 31si of October. 

Hame, home. 

Hamely, homely. 

Han’, hand. 

Han’ afore, the foremost horse on the left 
hand in the plough. 

Han’ ahin, the hindmost horse on the left 
hand in the plough. 

Hand-breed, a hand-breadth. 
Hand-waled, carefully chosen by hand. 
Handless, without hands, useless, awk¬ 
ward. 

Hangit, hanged. 

Hansel, hansel throne, a throne newly in¬ 
herited ; a gift for a particular season, 
or the firs t money on any particular 
occasion. 

Han’t, handed. 

Hap, to wrap. Winter hap, winter cloth¬ 
ing. 

Hap, hop. 

Ha’ppence, half-pence. 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap-step-an'-loup, hop. step and jump, 
with a light airy step. 

Harkit, hearkened. 

Harn, yarn. 

Har’sts, harvests. 

Hash, a soft, useless fellow. 

Hash’d, did smite, did disfigure. 

Haslock, descriptive of the finest wool, 
being the lock that grows on the hals, or 
throat. 

Has’t, has it. 

Hastit, hasted. 

Haud, to hold ; ivould keep. 




700 


GLOSSARY. 


Hands, holds. 

Hauf, the half. 

Haughs, low-lying lands., meadows. 
Hauns, hands as applied to workmen, 
persons. 

Haurl, to drag. 

Haurls, drags. 

Haurlin, peeling, dragging off. 

Hauver, oatmeal. 

Havins, good manners. 

Hav’rel, half-witted. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 
face. 

Healsome, wholesome. 

Heapet, heaped. 

Heapit, heaped. 

Rearin’, hearing. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hear’t, hear it. 

Heartie, dim. of heart. 

Hech, an exclamation of wonder. 

Hecht, foretold; offered. 

Hechtin’, making to pant. 

Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a 
number of sharp pins, used in dressing 
hemp, flax, etc. 

Hee balou, a term used by nurses when 
lulling children. 

Heels-o’er-gowdy, head over heels. 

Heeze, to elevate, to hoist. 

Heft, haft. 

Hein shinn’d, in-shinned. 

Hellim, the helm. 

Hen-broo, hen-broth. 

Herriet, harried. 

Herrin, herring. 

Herryment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself. 

Het, hot. Gie him’t het, give him it hot. 
Heugh, a coal pit; a steep. 

Heuk, a reaping-hook. ' 

Hich, high. 

Hidin’, hiding. 

Hie, high. 

Hilch, to hobble. 

Hilchin, halting. 

Hill-tap, hill-top. 

Hiltie skiltie, helter skelter. 

Himsel, himself. 

Hiney, honey. 

Hing, to hang. 

Hingin’, hanging. 

Hinging, hanging. 

Hirples, walks with difficulty. 

Hirplin, limping. 

Hissels, hissel, so many cattle as one per¬ 
son can attend. 

Histie, dry, barren. 

Hitch, a loop or knot. 

Hizzies, young women. 

Hoast, a cough. 

Hoble, to hobble. 

Hoddin, the motion of a man on horse¬ 
back. 

Hoggie, a young sheep after it is smeared 
and before it is shorn. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance-line, in 
curling, drawn across the rink. 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse-play by 
justling with the shoulder. 

Hol’t, holed, perforated. 


Hoodie-craw, the hooded crow. 

Hoodock, miserly. 

Hool, the outer skin or case. 

Hoolie 1 stop ! 

Hoord, hoard. 

Hoordet, hoarded. 

Horn, a spoon made of horn ; a comb 
made of horn. 

Hornie, Satan. 

Host, a cough. 

Hostin, coughing. 
notch’d, fidget^. 

Houghmagandie, fornication. 

Houlets, owls. 

Housie, dim. of house. 

Hov’d, swelled. 

Howdie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollowly ; a hollow or dell. 
Howe-backit, sunk in the back. 

Howes, hollows. 

Howkit, digged ; dug up. 

Howlet-faced, faced like an owl. 

Hoyse, hoist. 

Hoy’t, urged. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, Hugh. 

H under, a hundred. 

Hunkers, hams. 

Huntit, hunted. 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 

Hurchin, an urchin. 

Hurdies, hips. 

Hurl, to fall down rxiinously; to ride. 
Hushion, a cushion. 

Hyte, mad. 

ICKER, an ear of corn. 
ler’oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, each. 

Ilka, every. 

Ill-willie, ill-natured. 

Indentin, indenturing. 

Ingin e, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle-cheek, the fireside. 

Ingle-lowe, the household fire. 

In’s, in his. 

In’t, in it. 

I’se, 1 shall or will. 

Isna, is not. 

Ither, other. 

Itsel, itself. 

JAD, a jade. 

3 ads, jades. 

Jan war, January. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying, 

Jauner, foolish talk. 

Jauntie, dim. of jaunt. 

Jaups, splashes. 

Jaw, to pour. 

Jillet, a jilt. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender. 

Jimps, a kind of easy stays. 

Jimpy, neatly. 

Jink, to dodge. 

Jinker, that turns quickly. 

Jinkers, gay, sprightly girls. 

Jinkin, dodging. 

Jirkinet, an outer jacket or jerkin worn 
by women. 








GLOSSARY, 


701 


Jirt, a jerk. 

3o, sweetheart, a term expressing affec¬ 
tion and some degree of familiarity. 
Jobbin’, jobbing. 

Joctelegs, clasp-knives. 

Joes, lovers. 

Johnny Ged’s Hole, the grave-digger. 
Jokin, joking. 

Jorum, the jug. 

Jouk, to duck; to make obeisance. 

Jow, to swing and sound. 

Jumpit, jumped. 

Jundie, tojustle. 

KAES, daws. 

Kail, broth. 

Kail blade, the leaf of the colewort. 
Kail-runt, the stem of the colewort. 

Kain, farm produce paid as rent. 

Kebars, rafters. 

Kebbuck, a cheese. 

Kebbuck-heel, the remaining portion of 
a cheese. 

Keckle, to cackle, to laugh. 

Keekin’-glass, a looking-glass. 

Keekit, peeped. 

Keeks, peeps. 

Keepit, kept. 

Kelpies, ivater-spirits. 

Ken, know. 

Kend, knoicn. 

Kenn’d, known. 

Kennin, a little bit. 

Kent, knew. 

Kep, to catch anything when falling. 

Ket, a fleece. 

Kiaugh, anxiety. 

Kickin’, kicking. 

Kilbagie, the name of a certain kind of 
whisky. 

Killie, Kilmarnock. 

Kilt, to tuck up. 

Kimmer, a girl. 

Kin’, kind. 

King’s-hood, a part of the entrails of an 
ox. 

Kintra, country. 

Kintra eooser, a country stallion. 

Kirn, a churn. 

Kirns, harvest-homes. 

Kirsen, to christen. 

Kissin’, kissing. 

Kist, a shop counter. 

Kitchen, anything that eats with bread 
to serve for soup or gravy. 

Kitchens, seasons, makes palatable. 
Kittle, to tickle ,* ticklish. 

Kittlin, a kitten. 

Kiutlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rock. 
Knappin-hammers, hammers for break¬ 
ing stones. 

Knowe, a hillock. 

Knurl, a churl. 

Knurlin, a dwarf. 

Kye, cows. 

Kyle, a district of Ayrshire. 

Kytes, bellies. 

Kythe, discover. 

LADDIE, a lad. 


Lade, a load. 

Laggen, the angle between the side and 
bottom of a wooden dish. 

Laigh, low. 

Laik, lack. 

Lair, lore. 

Lairing, wading and sinking in snow or 
mud. 

Laith, loth. 

Laitbfu’, bashful. 

Lallan, lowland. 

Lambie, dim. of lamb. 

Lampit, limpet. 

Lan’, land, estate. 

Lane, alone. 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long. 

Langer, longer. 

Lap, did leap. 

Laughin, laughing. 

Lave, the rest. 

Lav’rocks, larks. 

Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Lawlan’, lowland. 

Lazie, lazy. 

Lea’e, leave. 

Leal, true. 

Lea-rig, a grassy ridge. 

Lear, lore, learning. 

Lee, the lea. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze me, a phrase of congratulatory en¬ 
dearment, I am happy in thee, or proud 
of thee. 

Leister, a three barbed instrument for 
sticking fish. 

Len’. lend. 

Leugh, laughed. 

Leuk, look, appearance. 

Ley crap, lea crop. 

Libbet, gelded. 

Licket, beating. 

Lickit, licked with desire. 

Licks, a beating. Gat his licks, got a 
beating. 

Liein, tiling lies. 

Lien, lain. 

Lift, heaven ; a large quantity. 

Lightly, to undervalue, to slight. 

Liken, to compare. 

Lilt, sing. 

Limbies, dim. of limbs. 

Limmer, a kept mistress ,* a strumpet. 
Limpet, limped. 

Lin, a vjaterfall. 

Linket, tripped deftly. 

Lin kin, tripping. 

Linn, a waterfall. 

Lint, flax. Sin lint was i’ the bell, since 
flax was in flower. 

Linties, linnets. 

Lippened, trusted. 

Lippie, dim. of lip. 

Loiin, milking place ; lane. 

Lo’ed, loved. 

Lon’on, London. 

Loof, palm of the hand. 

Loosome, lovesome. 

Loot, did let. 

Looves, palms. 






702 


GLOSSARY 


Losh, a petty oath. 

Lough, a lake. 

Louns, ragamufflns. 

Loup, to leap. 

Lovin’, loving. 

Low, flame. 

Lowan, flaming. 

Lovvin, blazing. 

Lowpin, leaping. 

Low ping, leaping. 

Lows’d, loosed. 

Lowse, to loosen. 

Luckie, a designation applied to an el¬ 
derly woman. 

Lug, the ear ; to produce, to bring out. 
Lugget, eared. Lugget caup, eared cxip. 
Luggies, small wooden dishes toith han¬ 
dles. 

Luke, look. 

Lum, the chimney. 

Lunardie, a bonnet called after L/unardi 
the aeronaut. 

Lunt, a column of smoke. 

Luntin, smoking. 

Luve, love. 

Luvers, lovers. 

Lyart, gray. 

Lynin, lining. 

MAE, more. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, almost; that nearly. 

Maistly, mostly. 

Mak, make. 

Makin, making. 

Mailie, Molly. 

Mailins, farms. 

Mang, among. 

Manse, a parsonage house. 

Manteels, mantles. 

Mark, marks. 

Mar’s year, 1715, the year of Mar's re¬ 
bellion. 

Mashlum, mixed corn. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. 

Maunna, must not. 

Maut, malt. 

Mavis, the thrush. 

Mawin, mowing. 

Mawn, a basket; movm. 

Maybe, perhaps. 

Meere, a mare. 

Meikle, as much. 

Melder, corn or grain of any kind sent to 
the mill to be ground. 

Mell, to meddle. 

Melvie, to soil with mud. 

Men’, mend. 

Mense, good manners. 

Mess John, the clergyman. 

Messin, a dog of mixed breeds. 

Midden, the dunghill. 

Midden-creels, dunghill baskets. 
Midden-hole, the dunghill. 

Midge, a gnat. 

Mim, prim. 

Mim-mou’d, prim-mouthed. 

Min, remembrance. 

Min’, mind. 


Minds me, remembers me. 

Mind’t-na, cared not. 

Minnie, mother. 

Mirk, dax’k. 

Misca’d, abused. 

Misguidin’, misguiding. 

Mishanter, misfortune, disaster,calamity, 
Miska’t, abused. 

Mislear’d, mischievous. 

Mist, missed. 

Misteuk, mistook. 

Mither, mother. 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

Mizzl’d, having different colors. 

Moistify, to make m’oist. 

Mony, many. 

Mools, the earth of graves. 

Moop, to nibble ; to keep company with. 
Moorlan’ moorland. 

Moss, a morass. 

Mou, mouth. 

Moudieworts, moles. 

Mousie, dim. of mouse. 

Movin’, moving. 

Muckle, great, big ; much. 

Musie, dim. of muse. 

Muslin-kail, broth composed simply of 
water, shelled barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pint. 

Mysel, myself. 

NA’, not; no. 

Nae, no. 

Naebody, nobody. 

Naething, nothing. 

Naig, a nag. 

Naigies, dim. of nags. 

Nane, none. 

Nappy, ale. 

Natch, grip, hold. To natch, to lay hold 
of violently. 

Near’t, near it. 

Neebors, neighbors. 

Needna, need not. 

Negleckit, neglected. 

Neist, next. 

Neuk, nook, corner. 

New-ca’d, newly driven. 

Nick, to break, to sever suddenly. 

Nickan, cutting. 

Nicket, cut off ; caught, cut off. 
Nick-nackets, curiosities. 

Nicks, knocks, blows. Auld crummie’s 
nicks, marks on the horn of a cow. 
Niest, next. 

Nieve-fu’, a fist-full. 

Nieves, fists. 

Niffer, exchange. 

Niger, a negro. 

Nits, nuts. 

Nocht, nothing. 

Norland, Northland. 

Notet, noted. 

Nowte, cattle. 

O', of. 

O’erlay, an outside dress, an overaU. 
O’erword, any term frequently repeatedt 
a refrain. 

Ony, any. 

Orra, supernumerary. 











GLOSSARY. 


703 


O’t, of it. 

O’ts, of it is. 

Ought, aught., anything. 

Oughtlins, anything in the least. 

Ourie, shivering. 

Oursel, our^selves. 

Out-cast, a quarrel. 

Outler, tin-housed. 

Owre, over ; too. 

Owrehip, a way of fetching a blow with 
the hammer over the arm. 

Owsen, oxen. 

PACK, pack an’ thick, on friendly or in¬ 
timate terms. 

Packs, twelve stones. 

Paidle, to paddle. 

Paidles, wanders about without object or 
motive. 

Paidl’t, paddled. 

Painch, paunch, stomach, 

Paitricks, partridges. 

Pangs, crams. 

Parishen, the parish. 

Parritch, oatmeal boiled in water^ stir¬ 
about. 

Parritch-pats, porridge-pots. 

Pat, put; a pot. 

Pattle, a plough-staff. 

Paughty, haughty. 

Paukie, cunning, sly. 

Pay’t, paid. 

Pechan, the stomach. 

Pechin, panting. 

Peel, a tower. 

Peelin, peeling. 

Penny wheep, small beer. 

Petticoatie, dim. of petticoat. 

Pettle, a plough-staff. 

Phraisiu, flattering. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pit, put. 

Pits, puts. 

Placads, public proclamations 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third part 
of a Scotch penny, twelve of lohich 
make an English penny. 

Pladie, dim. of plaid. 

Plaided, plaiding. 

Plaister, to plaister. 

Platie, dim. of plate. 

Plough, plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Pliver, a plover. 

Plumpit, plumped. 

Pocks, wallets. 

Poind, to seize for sequestration* 

Poind’t, poinded. 

Poortith, poverty. 

Posie, a bouquet. 

Pou, to pull. 

Pouchie, dim. ot pouch* 

Pouk, to pluck. 

Poupit, the pulpit. 

Pouse, a push. 

Poussie, a hare. 

Pou’t, pulled. 

Pouts, poults, chicks. 

Pouther’d, powdered. 

Pouthery, powdery. 

Pow, the head, the skull. 


Pownie, a pony, a small horse. 

Powther, potvder. 

Praise be blest, an expression of thank- 
fxdness. 

Prayin, praying. 

Free, to taste. 

Preen, a pin. 

Preut, print. 

Pridefu’, prideful. 

Prie’d, tasted. 

Prief, proof. 

Priestie, dim. of priest. 

Priggin, haggling. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to propose. 

Proveses, provosts. 

Pu’, to pull. 

Pu’d, pxdled. 

Puddin’, a pudding. 

Pud dock-stools, mushrooms. 

Pund, pounds. 

Pursie, dim. of purse. 

Pyet, the magpie. 

Pyke, to pick. 

Pyles, grains. 

QUAICK, quack. 

Quat, quitquitted. 

Quaukin, quaking. 

Quey, a cow from one year to two years 
old. 

Quo’, quoth. 

RAD, afraid. 

Rade, rode. 

Ragweed, the plant ragwort. 

Raibles, rattles, nonsense. 

Rair, to roar. Wad rair’t, would have 
roared. 

Rairin, roaring. 

Raise, rose. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ramblin, rambling. 

Ramfeezl’d, fatigued. 

Ramgunshock, rugged. 

Ram-stam, forward. 

Randie, quarrelsome. 

Randy, a term of approbrium generally 
applied to a woman. 

Ranklin’, rankling. 

Ranting, noisy, full of animal spirits. 
Rants, jollifications. 

Rape, a rope. 

Raploch, coarse. 

Rash, a rush. 

Rash-buss, a bush of rushes. 

Rattan, a rat. 

Rattons, rats. 

Raucle, fearless. 

Raught, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to stretch. 

Rax’d, stretched out, extended* 

Raxin, stretching. 

Ream, cream. 

Rebute, a rebut, a discomfiture* 

Red, counsel. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

Reekin, smoking. 

Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 

Reeks, smokes. 




704 


GLOSSARY, 


Reestit, withered^ singed ; stood restive. 
Reflec’, reflect. 

Reif randies, sturdy beggars. 

Remead, remedy. 

Remuve, remove. 

Respeckit, respected. 

Restricked. restricted. 

Rew, to take pity. 

Rickies, stocks of grain. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Riggin, rafters. 

Rigwooddie, withered, sapless. 

Rin, run. 

Rink, the course of the stones, a term in 
curling, 

Rinnin, running. 

Ripp, a handful of unthrashed corn. 
Ripple, weakness in the back and reins. 
Ripplin-kame, a flax-comb. 

Ripps, handfuls. 

Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of 
roots. 

Rive, to burst. 

Rives, tears to pieces. 

Rives’t, tears it. 

Roastin’, roasting. 

Rock, a distaff. 

Rockin, a special gathering, the women 
spinning on the rock or distaff. 

Roon, round. 

"Roos'd, praised. 

Roose, to praise. 

Roosty, rusty. 

Roun’, round. 

Roupet, hoarse as with a cold. 

Routhie, well filled, abundant. 

Rowes, rolls. 

Rowin, rolling. 

Row’t, rolled. 

Rowte, to low, to bellow. 

Rowth, abundance. 

Rowtin, lowing. 

Rozet, rosin, 

Ruefu’, rueful. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkl’d, vrrinkled. 

Runts, the stems of cabbage. 

Ryke, reach. 

SABS, sobs. 

Sae, so. 

Saft, soft. 

Sair, sore ; to serve. 

Sairly, sorely. 

Sair’t, served. 

Sang, song. 

Sannock, Alexander. 

Sark, a shirt. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Sauce, scorn, insolence. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saugh woodies, ropes made of willow 
withes. 

Saul, soul. 

Saunt, saint. 

Saut, salt. 

Saut backets, salt buckets. 

Sautet, salted. 

Saw, to sow. 

Saw in, sowing. 

Sawmont, a salmon. 


Sax, six. 

Saxpence, sixpence. 

Say’t, say it. 

Scaith, hurt. 

Scour, to scare. 

Scour, frightened. 

Scaud, to scald. 

Scawl, a scold. 

Scho, she. 

Schoolin’, schooling, teaching. 

Scones, barley cakes. 

Sconner, to loath ; loathing. 

Scraichin, screaming. 

Scrapin’, scraping. 

Screed, a tear, a rent; to repeat glibly. 
Scriechin, screeching. 

Scrievin, gliding easily. 

Scrimpit, scanty. 

Scrimply, scantly. 

Scroggie, covered with stunted shrubs. 
Sculdudd’ry, a ludicrous term denoting 
fornication, 

See’t, see it. 

Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self, 

Sell’t, sold. 

Sen’, send. 

Sen’t, send it, 

Servan’, servant. 

Set, lot. 

Sets, becomes ; sets off, starts. 

Settlin, got a fearfu’ settlin, was fright¬ 
ened into quietness. 

Shachl’t, deformed. 

Shaird, a shred. 

Sha’na, shall not. 

Shangan, a cleft stick. 

Shank, the leg and foot. 

Shanks, legs. 

Shanna, shall not. 

Sharin’t, sharing it. 

Shaul, shallow. 

Shaver, a wag. 

Shavie, a trick. 

Shaw, show. 

Shaw’d, showed. 

Shaws, wooded dells. 

Sheep- shank, wha thinks himsel nae 
sheepshank bane, who thinks himself 
no unimportant personage. 

Sheers, shears ; scissors. 

Sherra-moor, Sheriff-muir. 

Sheugh, a trench. 

Sheuk, shook. 

Shiel, a shieling, a hut. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shillin’s, shillings. 

Shog, a shock. 

Shools, shovels. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shor’d, threatened; offered. 

Shore, to threaten. 

Shouldna, shoxdd not. 

Shouther, shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, did cut grain. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, secure. 

Siclike, suchlike. 

Sidelins, sidelong. 

Sighin’, sighing. 

Siller, money ; of the color of silver. 









GLOSSARY, 


705 


Simmer, summer. 

Simmers, summers. 

Sin’, since. 

Sindry, sundry. 

Sinfu’, sinful. 

Singet, singed. 

Singin’, singing. 

Sing’t, sing it. 

Sinn, the sun. 

Sinny, sunny. 

Sinsyne, since. 

Skaith, injury. 

Skaithing, injuring. 

Skeigh, high-mettled., shy, proud, dis¬ 
dainful. 

Skellum, a worthless felloiv. 

Skelp, a slap ; to run. 

Skelpie-liramer, a technical term in fe¬ 
male scolding. 

Skelpin, walking smartly ; resounding. 
Skelping, slapping. 

Skelpit, hurried. 

Skinklin, glittering. 

Skirl, to shriek. 

Skirl’d, shrieked. 

Skirlin, shrieking. 

Sklent, to deviate from truth. 

Sklented, slanted. 

Sklentin, slanting. 

Skouth, range, scope. 

Skreech, to scream. 

Skrieigh, to scream. 

Skyrin, anything that strongly takes the 
eye, showy, gaudy. 

Skyte, a sharp oblique stroke. 

Slade, slid. 

Slae, the sloe. 

Slaps, flashes ; gates, styles, breaches in 
hedges. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, shy. 

Sleeest, slyest. 

Sleekit, sleek. 

Slidd’ry, slippery. 

Sloken, to quench, to allay thirst. 

Slypet, sltpped, fell over. 

Sma’, small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder. 

Smeek, smoke. 

Smiddy, a smithy. 

Smoor'd, smothered. 

Smoutie, smutty. 

Smytrie, a number huddled together. 
Snap, smart. 

Snapper, to stumble. 

Snash, abuse, impertinence, 

Snaw broo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Snawy, snowy. 

Sned, to lop, to cut. 

Snell, bitter, biting. 

Snellest, sharpest, keenest. 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 

Snick, the latchet of a door. 

Snirtle, to laugh slyly. 

Snool, to cringe, to submit tamely ,* to 
snub. 

Snoov’d, sneaked. 

Snoov’t, vient smoothly. 

Snowkit, snuffed. 

Sodger, a soldier. 


Sodgerin’, soldiering. 

Soger, a soldier. 

Sonsie, jolly, comely. 

Soom, to swim. 

Soor, sour. 

Sootie, sooty. 

Sough, a heavy sigh. 

Souk, a suck. 

Soupe, a spoonful, a small quantity of 
anything liquid. 

Souple, supple. 

Souter, a shoemaker. 

Sowps, spoonfuls. 

Sowter, a shoemaker. 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a low 
whistle. 

Sowther, to solder, to make up. 

Spae, to prophesy. 

Spalls, ctiips of wood. 

Spairges, dashes or scatters about. 
Spairin, sparing. 

Spak, spctke. 

Spate, a flood. 

Spavie, a disease. 

Spaviet, having the spavin. 

Spean, to wean. 

Speel, to climb. 

Speel’d, climbed. 

Speer, to inquire. 

Spence, the country parlor. 

Spier, to ask, to inquire. 

Spier’d, inquired. 

Spier’t, inqitired. 

Spinnin, spinning. 

Spleuchan, a tobacco-pouch, 

Splore, a frolic. 

Sprackled, clambered. 

Sprattle, to struggle. 

Spring, a quick air in music, a Scottish 
reel. 

Spritty, ficll of spirits.' 

Sprush, spruce. 

Spunk, flre ; mettle ; a spark. 

Spunkie,/wZi of spirit; whisky. 

Spunkies, Wilts o’ the wisp. 

Spurtle, a stick with which porridge, 
broth, etc., are stirred %vhile boiling. 
Squattle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, to scream. 

Stacher’d, staggered, walked unsteadily. 
Stacher’t, staggered. 

Stack, stuck. 

Staggie, dim. of stag. 

Staig, a horse of one, two, or three years 
old, not yet broken for riding, nor em¬ 
ployed in work. 

Stan’, a stand. Wad stan’t, would have 
stood. 

Stanes, stones. 

Stang, to sting. 

Stank, a pool or pond. 

Stap, to stop. 

Stark, strong. 

Starns, stars. 

Starnies, dim. of stams. 

Startin, starting. 

Startles, runs hurriedly. 

Starvin, starving. 

Staukin, stalking. 

Staumrel, half-witted. 

Staw, to steal; to surfeit. 





7 o6 


GLOSSARY. 


Stechin, cramming, panting with reple¬ 
tion. 

Steek, to close. 

Steeks, stitches, reticulations. 

Steer, to injure ; to stir up. 

Steer’d, molested. 

Steeve, firm, compacted. 

Stells, stills. 

Sten, a leap or bound. Hasty stens, 
hasty stretches or rushes. 

Sten’t, reared. 

Stents, assessments, dues. 

Steyest, steepest. 

Stibble, stubble. 

Stibble-rig, the reaper in harvest who 
takes the lead ; a stubble-ridge. 
Stick-an-stowe, totally, altogether. 

Stilt, halt. 

Stimpart, an eighth part of a Winchester 
bushel. 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old. 
Stockin, stocking. 

Stockins, stockings. 

Stockit, stocked. 

Stocks, plants of cabbage. 

Stoited, walked stupidly. 

Stoitered, staggered. 

Stoor, sounding hollowly or hoarsely. 
Stoppit, stopped. 

Stot, an ox. 

Stoure, dustdust blown on the wind ; 

pressure of circumstances. 

Stown, stolen. 

Stownlins, by stealth. 

Stowrie, dusty. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Strade, strode. 

Strae, a fair strae death, a natural death. 
Straik, to stroke. 

Straikit, stroked. 

Strak, struck. 

Strang, strong. 

Strappan, strapping. 

Strappin, strapping. 

Straught, straight. 

Streamies, dim. of streams. 

Streekit, stretched. Streekit owre, stretch¬ 
ed across. 

Strewin, strewing. 

Striddle, to straddle. 

Stringin, stringing. 

Stroan’t, pissed. 

Studdie, a stithy. 

Stumpie, dim. of stump, a short quill. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to 
walk sturdily. 

Stuff, corn. 

Sturt, to molest, to vex. 

Sturtin, frighted. 

Sty me, see a styme, see in the least. 
Sucker, sugar. 

Sud, should. 

Sugh, a rushing sound. 

Sumphs, stupid fellows. 

Sune, soon. 

Suppin’, supping. 

Sutnron, Southern, English. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swall’d, swelled. 

Swank, stately. 

Swankies, strapping young fellows. 


Swap, an exchange. 

Swarf, to swoon. 

Swat, did siveat. 

Swatch, sample; specimen. 

Swats, ale. 

Swearin’, swearing. 

Sweatin, sweating. 

Swinge, to lash. 

Swingein, whipping. 

Swirl, a curve. 

Swith, swift. 

Swither, doubt. 

Swoor, swore. 

Sybow, a leek. 

Syne, since ; then. 

TACK, possession, lease. 

Tackets, a kind of nails for driving into 
the heels of shoes. 

Tae, toe. Three-tae’d, three-toed. 

Taed, a toad. 

Taen, taken. 

Tairge, to task severely. 

Tak, to take. 

Tald, told. 

Tane, the one. 

Tangs, tongs. 

Tapmost, topmost. 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish. 

Tappit hen, a quart measure. 

Taps, tops. 

Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy. 

Tarrow, to mumnur. 

Tarrow’t, murmured. 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor. 

Tassie, a goblet. 

Tauld, told. 

Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be 
handled. 

Tawpies, foolish, thoughtless young per¬ 
sons. 

Tawted, matted, uncombed. 

Teats, small quantities. 

Teen, provocation, chagrin. 

Tell’d, told. 

Tellin’, telling. 

Temper-pin, the tcooden pin used for 
tempering or regulating the motion of 
a spinning-wheel. 

Ten hours’ bite, a slight feed to the horses 
while in yoke in the forenoon. 

Tent, to take heed ; mark. 

Tentie, heedful. 

Tentier, more careful. 

Teughly, toughly. 

Teuk, took. 

Thack an rape, clothes. 

Thae, these. 

Thairm, fiddlestrings. 

Thankfu’, thankful. 

Than kit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched, covered up, secured. 
Thegither, together. 

Themsels, themselves. 

Thick, pack and thick, friendly. 
Thieveless, cold, dry, spited. 

Thigger, begging. 

Thir, these ; their. 

Thirl’d, thrilled. 

Thole, to .suffer, to endure , 

Thou’s, thou art. 









GLOSSARY, 


707 


Thowes, thaws. 

Thowless, slack, lazy. 

Thrang, busy ; a croiod. 

Thrapple, the throat. 

Thrave, twenty-four sheaves of corn, in¬ 
cluding two shocks. 

Thraw, to sprain or twist; to cross or 
contradict. 

Thrawin, twisting. 

Thrawn, twisted. 

Thraws, throes. 

Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion. 
Thresh, to thrash. 

Threshing, thrashing. 

Thretteen, thirteen. 

Thretfcy, thirty. 

Thrissle, the thistle. 

Throwther, a’ throwther, through-other, 
pell mell. 

Thuds, that makes a loud intermittent 
noise; resounding blows. 

Thummart, the weasel. 

Thumpit, thumped. 

Thysel’, thyself. 

Tidins, tidings. 

Till, unto. 

Tiirt, to it. 

Timmer, timber ; the tree boughs. 
Timmer propt. Umber propt. 

Tine, to lose ; to go astray. 

Tine, losz. 

Tint as win, lost as won. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tips, rams. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to strip. 

Tirra, knocket^. 

Tirlin, unroofing. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tocher-band, dowry bond. 

Todlin, tottering. 

Tods, foxes. 

Toom, empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet. 
Touzie, rough, shaggy. 

Touzle, to rumple, 

To’va, to hair... 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Towzling, rumpling, dishevelling. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head¬ 
dress. 

Toyte, to totter. 

Transinugrify’d, metamorphosed. 
Trashtrie, trash. 

T read i n ’, treading. 

Trews, trousers. 

Trickie, tricksy. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trinkling, trickling. 

Troggin, wares sold by wandering mer¬ 
chants. 

Troke, to exchange, to deal with. 

Trottin, trotting. 

Trouse, trousers. 

Trow’t, believed. 

Trowth, a petty oath. 


Try’t, have tried. 

Tulzie, a quarrel. 

Tunefu’, tuneful. 

Tup, a ram. 

Twa, two. 

Twa fauld, twofold, doubled up. 
Twa-three, two or three. 

Twal, twelve o'clock. 

Twalpennie wortli, twelvepenny worth. 
Twalt, the twelfth. 

Twang, twinge. 

Twined, reft. 

Twins, bereaves, takes away from. 
Twistle, a twist. 

Tyke, a vagrant dog. 

Tyne, to lose. 

Tysday ’teen, Tuesday evening. 

UNCHANCY, dangerous. 

Unco, very ; great, extreme ; strange. 
Uncos, strange things, news of the coun¬ 
try side. 

Unkend, unknown. 

Unkenn’d, unknown. 

Unsicker, un secure. 

Unskaith’d, unhurt. 

Upo’, upon. 

Upon’t, upon it. 

VAP’RIN, vaporing. 

Vauntie, proud, in high spirits. 

Vera, very. 

Viewin, viewing. 

Virls, rings round a column. 

Vittel, victual, grain. 

Vittle, victual. 

Vogie, proud, well-pleased. 

Vow, an interjection expressive of ad¬ 
miration or surprise. 

WA’, a wall. 

Wa’flower, the wallflower. 

Wab, a web. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, tvoidd ; a wager ; to wed. 

Wad a haen, icould have had. 

Wadna, would not. 

Wadset, a mortgage. 

Wae, sorrowful. 

Wae days, woful days. 

Waefu’, woful. 

Waes me, woe's me. 

Waesucks I alas ! 

Wae worth, woe befall. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the 
shuttle through the web. 

Waifs, stray sheep. 

Wair’t, spend it. 

Wal’d, chose. 

Wale, choice. Pick and wale, of choicest 
quality. 

Walie, ample, large. 

Wallop in a tow, to hang one's self. 

Waly, ample. 

Wame, the belly. 

Wamefou, bellyful. 

Wan, did win ; earned. 

Wanchancie, unlucky. 

Wanrestfu’, restless. 

, War’d, spent, bestowed. 
j Ware, to spend ; worn. 






7 o8 


GLOSSARY, 


Wark, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with. 

Warks, works, in the sense of buildings, 
manufactures, etc. 

Warld, world. 

Warlock, a wizard. 

Warly, worldly. 

Warran, wat'rant. 

Warsle, to wrestle. 

Warst, worst. 

Warstl’d, wrestled. 

Wasna, was not. 

Wast, west. 

Wastrie, prodigality, riot. 

Wat, wet; wot, know. 

Wat na, wot not. 

Waterbrose, hrose made of meal and 
water simply. 

Wattle, a wand. 

Wauble, to swing, to reel. 

Waukening, awakening. 

Waukens, wakens. 

Waukit, thickened with toil. 

Waukrife, wakeful. 

Wauks, awakes. 

Waur, to fight, to defeat; worse. 

Waur’t, worsted. 

Weans, children. 

Weanies, dim. of weans. 

Weason, the weasand. 

Wee, little. A wee, a short period of time^ 
A wee a-back, a small space behind. 
Weel, well. 

Weel-gaun, well-going. 

Weel-kent, well-known. 

Weet, wet; dew; rain. 

We’se, we shall or loill. 

Westlin, western. 

Wha, who. 

Wha e’er, whoever. 

Whaizle, to wheeze. 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Wham, whom. 

Whan, when. 

Whang, a large slice ; strip of leather. 
Whar, where. 

Whare, where. 

Wha’s, whose. 

Whase, whose. 

Whatfore no ? for what reason not ? 
Whatt, did whet or cut. 

Whaup, a curlew. 

Whaur’ll, where will. 

Wheep, flying nimbly. 

Whiddin, running as a hare. 
Whigmeleeries, crochets. 

Wbingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whins, furze bushes. 

Whirlygigums, useless ornaments. 
Whisht, peace. Held my whisht, kept 
silence. 

Whiskit, whisked. 

Whissle, whistle. So gat the whissle o’ 
my groat, to play a losing game. 
Whistle, the throat. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 
Whun-stane, whinstone, granite. 

Whup, a whip.^ 

Whyles, sometirnes 
wifth/ 

Wick, a term in curling, to strike a stone 
in cm oblique direction. 


Widdiefu, ill-tempered. 

Widdle, a struggle or bustle. 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wifie, dim. of wife. 

Wight, strong, powerful. 

Wil’ cat, the wild cat. 

Willie-waught, a hearty draught. 

Willow wicker, the smaller species of 
toillow. 

Willyart, wild, strange, timid. 

Wimplin, waving, meandering. 

Wimpl’t, wimpled. 

Win’, wind. 

Winkin, winking. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock-bunker, a seat in a window. 
Winnocks, windows. 

Wins, loinds. 

Win’t, did ivind. 

Wintle, a staggering motion. 

Wintles, struggles. 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, wish. 

Witha’, withal. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wonner, a wonder, a contemptuous ap^ 
pellation. 

Wons, dioells. 

Woo’, wool. 

Woodie, the gallows ; a rope, more prop^ 
erly one made of withes or willows. 
Wooer-babs, garters knotted below the 
knee in a couple of loops. 

Wordie, dim. of ivord. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worl’, world. 

Worset, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure of 
loonder. 

Wrang, wrong ; mistaken. 

Wranged, ivronged. 

Wreeths, wreaths. 

Wud, mad. 

Wumble, a wimble. 

Wyle, to beguile, to decoy. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyling, beguiling. 

Wyte, to blame, to reproach. 

YARD, a garden. 

Yaud, a worn-out horse. 

Yell, barren. As yell’s the Bill, giving 
no more milic than the bull. 

Yerd, the churchyard. 

Yerket, jerked, lashed. 

Yerl, an earl. 

Ye’se, you shall or will. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yetts, gates. 

Yeukin, itching. 

Yeuks, itches. 

Yill, ale. 

Yill-caup, ale-stoup. 

Yird, earth. 

Yirth, the earth. 

Yokin, yoking, a bout, a set to. 

Yont, beyond. 

Yoursel, yourselves; yourself. 

Yowes, ewes. 

Yowie, dim. of yowe. 

Yule, Christmas. 













INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


PAGE 


Accept the gift a friend sincere. 184 

Adieu I a heart-warm, fond adieu I .. 297 
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 164 
Adown winding Nith I did wander.... 287 
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl. 238 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever !.284 

Again rejoicing nature sees. 298 

Again the silent wheels of time. 128 

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie 1 109 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be.348 

A head, pure, sinless quite of brain 

and soul. 355 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping 

wight. 201 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch.. 231 

All hail I inexorable lord 1. 128 

Altho’ my back be at the wa’. 326 

Altho’ my bed were in yon muir. 314 

Altho’ thou maun never be mine. 264 

Amang the trees where humming 

bees. 313 

Amang the heathy hills and ragged 

woods. 166 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy 

December. 276 

An honest man here lies at rest. 187 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire.300 

An’ O 1 my Eppie. 350 

A rose-bud by my early walk. 268 

As cauld a wind as ever blew.224 

As down the burn they took their 

way. 326 

As father Adam first was fool’d. 235 

As I came in by our gate end. 321 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 279 

As I was wand’ring ae midsummer 

e’enin’. 327 

Ask why God made the gem so small. 236 
A slave to love’s unbounded sway.... 321 
As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither... 87 
As on the banks o’ wandering Nith... 214 

As Tam the Chapman on a day. 228 

A’ the lads o’ Thornie-bank. 326 

At Brownhill we always get dainty 

good cheer. 243 

Auld chuckie Reekie’s sair distrest... 187 
Auld comrade dear and brither sinner 207 
Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s 

alarms.. 264 

A’ ye wha live by sowps o’ drink. 130 

Bannocks o’ bear meal. 827 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. 160 
Behind yon hills where Lugar flows.. 294 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive !. .. 276 
Below thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes.. 241 
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness.240 


PAGE 


Blest be M’Murdo to his latest day... 244 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill.288 

Bonnie w'ee thing, cannie wee thing.. 272 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway.237 

But lately seen in gladsome green.... 258 
But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 224 
By Allan stream I chanc’d to rove.... 253 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik.267 

By yon castle wa’, at the close of the 
day. 309 

Can I cease to care. 293 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to 

w'est.281 

Cauld is the e’enin’ blast. 328 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious rail¬ 
ing. 240 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 301 

Come boat me o’er, come row me o’er 328 
Come, let me take thee to my breast. 288 
Coming through the rye, poor body.. 328 
Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ 

mair.258 

Could aught of song declare my pains 316 
Curs’d be the man, the poorest wretch 

in life. 235 

Curse on ungrateful man that can 
be pleas’d. 203 

Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief. 89 

Dear-, I’ll give thee some advice 245 

Deluded swain, the pleasure. 254 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw. 306 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ?. 304 

Duncan Gray came here to w^oo.248 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 143 

Earth’d up here lies an imp o’ hell... 210 

Edina 1 Scotia’s darling seat !. 134 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration. 131 

Fair empress of the Poet’s soul.200 

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face. 130 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint 244 

Fair the face of orient day. 204 

False flatterer, Hope, away !. 189 

Fareweel to a’ our Scottish fame.324 

Farewell, dear Friend 1 may guid 

luck hit you.210 

Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains. 210 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 

earth, and ye skies. 246 

Farew'ell, thou stream that winding 

flows. 257 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and 

strong. 306 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped.. 312 

709 
































































710 


INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


PAGE 


Fill me with the rosy wine. 224 

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife.... 211 

First when Maggy was my care. 305 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes. 277 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn... 203 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near... 262 

Frae the friends and land I love. 351 

Friday first’s the day appointed. 245 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal.... 185 

From thee, Eliza, I must go. 294 

From those drear solitudes and 

frowzy cells. 208 

Full well thou know’st I love thee 

dear. 266 

Fy, let us a’ to Kircudbright. 244 

Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night 271 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me. 329 

Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine. 282 

Grant me, indulgent Heav’n, that I 

may live. 235 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer. 350 

Guid mornin to your Majesty 1. 91 

Guid speed an’ furder to you, Johny. 191 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant 

shore. 283 

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte.329 

Hail, Poesie 1 thou Nymph reserv’d I. 178 
Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie ! 215 

Hark! the mavis’evening sang. 256 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ? 98 
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin 

ferlie!. 133 

Health to the Maxwells’ vet’ran 

Chief!. 200 

Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither 

Scots. 158 

He clench’d his pamphlets in his fist. 2.39 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald... 329 
He looked Just as your Sign-post lions 

do. .385 

Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad .329 
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing.. 317 
Hero awa, there awa, wandering 

Willie. 251 

Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct.. 216 

Here comes Burns. 243 

Here Holy Willie’s sair worn clay.... 197 
Here is the glen, and here the bower. 255 

Here lie Willie Michie’s banes. 238 

Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles 

were shamm’d.243 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose. 216 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man 1 242 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon. 242 

Here sowter Hood in Death does 

sleep. 241 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign’d... 216 
Here where the Scottish Muse im¬ 
mortal lives. 178 

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend. 307 
Here’s a health to them that’s awa’.. 320 
Here’s to thy health, my bonnie lass. 330 
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and 

dead. 2.37 

Ctey. the dusty miller. 330 

His face with smile eternal drest. 355 

Honest Will to heaven is gane. 245 


PAGE 


How can my poor heart be glad.255 

How cold is that bosom which folly 

once fired. 182 

How cruel are the parents. 261 

How daur ye ca’ me howlet-faced_244 

How lang and dreary is the night.... 257 
How pleasant the banks of the clear- 

winding Devon. 286 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig’s Grace 214 
How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, 

and unite. 171 

Husband, husband, cease your strife. 254 

I am a keeper of the law. 237 

I am my mammie’s ae bairn. 390 

“ I burn, I burn, as when thro’ ripen’d 

corn”. 228 

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains 186 

I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’. 330 

I do confess thou art sae fair. 283 

I dreamed I lay where flowers were 

springing. 281 

If thou should ask my love. 332 

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap. 318 

If you rattle along like your mis¬ 
tress’s tongue. 232 

I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen.270 

I gaed up to Dunse. 322 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie. 1.38 

I had sax owson in a pleugh. 322 

I hae a wife o’ my ain. 248 

I hold it. Sir, my bounden duty. 198 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ 

friend. 128 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near 307 

I’ll ay ca’ in by yon town. 307 

I married with a scolding wife. 331 

I met a lass, a bonnie lass. 232 

I mind it weel, in early date. 190 

I murder hate by field or flood. 239 

I’m three times doubly o’er your 

debtor. 166 

In coming by the brig o’ Dye. 331 

Inhuman man 1 curse on thy bar- 

b’rous art. 159 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper 

young Belles. 318 

In politics if thou wouldst mix. 238 

In simmer when the hay was mawn.. 274 
Instead of a Song, boys. I’ll give you 

a Toast. 236 

In this strange land, this uncouth 

clime. 218 

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are 

proper young men. 318 

In vain would Prudence, with deco¬ 
rous sneer. 227 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng 220 

I see a form, I see a face. 262 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth 168 

Is there a whim-inspired fool.241 

Is there, for lionest poverty. 300 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard. 292 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face. 331 

It was a’ for our rightfu’ King.331 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes 

did me enthrall. 329 

It was the charming month of May.. 290 
It was upon a Lammas night. 294 






















































































INDEX TO FIRST LINES, 


71I 


PAGE 

Jenny M‘Craw, she has ta’en to the 

heather. 233 

Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss.280 

John Anderson my jo, John. 270 

Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief.238 

Ken ye aught o’ Captain Grose V. 305 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidgeand claw 83 
Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper 

through. 175 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame.. 241 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’. 242 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose... 88 

Landlady, count the lawin. 332 

Lass, w'hen your mither is frae hame 232 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen. 263 

Late crippl’d of an arm, and now a leg 148 

Let not woman e’er complain.291 

Let other heroes boast their scars.... 230 

Let other Poets raise a fracas. 60 

Life ne’er exulted in so rich a prize.. 174 
Light lay the earth on Billy’s breast. 228 
Like Esop’s lion. Burns says, sore I 

feel. 217 

Lone on the bleaky hills the sti*aying 

flocks. 219 

Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours 217 
Lord, to account who dares thee call. 243 

Lord, we thank an’ thee adore. 233 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 265 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 278 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 261 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave.229 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 266 

My blessings on ye, honest wife.244 

My bottle is my holy pool. 234 

M*y Chi oris, mark now green the 

groves. 289 

My curse upon thy venom’d stang.... 164 
My Father was a Farmer upon the 

Carrick border O. 311 

M.y Harry was a gallant gay. .325 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie... 271 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 278 

My heart is wae, and unco wae. 352 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here. 282 

My heart was once as blithe and free 332 

My honor’d Colonel, deep I feel. 186 

My lord a-hunting he is gane.320 

My Lord, I know your noble ear. 160 

My lov’d, my honor’d, much re¬ 
spected friend 1. 119 

My love she’s but a lassie yet. 3-32 

My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form... 281 

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fair.. 280 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix. 205 

No churchman am I for to rail and to 

write. 296 

No more of your guests, be they titled 

or not. 184 

No more, ye warblers of the wood- 

no more 1. 183 

No sculptur’d marble here, nor pom¬ 
pous lay. 188 


PAGE 

No song nor dance I bring from yon 


great city.. 173 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway. 237 

Now bank an’ brae are claith’d in 

green.284 

Now health forsakes that angel face. 229 
Now in her green mantle blithe Na¬ 
ture arrays. 259 

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse. 218 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea.... 257 
Now Nature hangs her mantle green 146 

Now Robin lies in hisdast lair . 190 

Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers... 301 
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes. 265 
Now spring has clad the groves in 

green. 301 

Now wrestlin winds and slaught’ring 
guns. 295 


O a’ ye pious godly flocks. 192 

O bonnie was yon rosy brier. 262 

“ O came ye here the fight to shun ”. 303 

O can ye labor lea, young man. 232 

O, could I give thee India’s wealth... 220 
O Death, hadst thou but spar’d his life 2^ 
O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody! 144 
O’er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the 

lone mountain straying. 203 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw.268 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our 

peace. 226 

Ogie my love brose, brose. 232 

O Goudie ! terror o’ the Whigs.207 


O, had the malt thy strength of mind 184 
Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times.. 240 
Oh ! I am come to the low countrie.. .334 
Oh, open the door, some pity to show 250 


O how can I be blithe and glad. 285 

O how shall I, unskilfu’, try. 333 

O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has 

gotten. 250 

O Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie !.... 333 

O, Lady Mary Ann. 334 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ?..... 260 

Old Winter with his frosty beard. 1^ 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles.. 316 

O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 273 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide.... 251 
O Lord, when hunger pinches sore... 243 
O luve will venture in, where it daur 

na weel be seen. 275 

O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet. 3^ 

O Mary, at thy window be. 310 

O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet 278 
O meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty 271 
O merry hae I been teethin’ a heckle 2.35 
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour... 249 

O, my luve’s like a red, red rose. 279 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day 314 
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells.... 307 
Once fondly lov’d, and still remem¬ 
ber’d dear. 206 

One night as I did wander. 317 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories 

tell. 235 

On peace and rest my mind was bent 321 

O, once I lov’d a bonnie lass. .305 

O Philly, happy be that day. 291 

O poortith cauld, and restless love... 248 









































































712 


INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 


PAGE 


Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with 

care. 117 

O raging fortune’s withering blast... 314 

O rattlin’, roarin’ Willie. 3^16 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine 143 

Orthodox, orthodox. 221 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in 

John Knox. 162 

O sad and heavy should I part. 336 

O saw ye bonnie Lesley. 313 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?. 289 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab? 350 
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 260 
O steer her up, and hand her gaun... 336 

O that I had ne’er been married. 351 

O Thou dread Pow’r, who reign’st 

above. 125 

O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art 126 
O Thou, in whom we live and move.. 232 
O thou pale Orb, that silent shines... 116 
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend 126 
O Thou unknown. Almighty Cause... 124 
O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 

dwell. 195 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee. 85 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide. 188 

O thou whom Poetry abhors. 240 

Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair 327 
Out over the Forth I look to the North 285 

O, wat ye wha’s in yon town. 279 

O wat ye what my minnie did. 232 

O, were I on Parnassus’ hill 1. 269 

O were my love yon lilac fair. 288 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast. 280 

O wha is she that lo’es me. 304 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy ?_283 

O, where did ye get that hauver meal 

bannock?. 336 

O whare live ye my bonnie lass. 348 

O wha will to St. Stephen’s house_ 336 

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad 253 

O why the deuce should I repine. 322 

O, Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut. 270 

O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie 

Dunbar?.325 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel. 97 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity 
stains. 242 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 223 
Powers celestial, whose protection... 308 


Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 

name. 216 

Raving winds around her blowing.... 266 
Revered defender of beauteous 

Stuart. 180 

Right, Sir ! your text I’ll prove it true 85 
Rusticity’s ungainly form.243 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 160 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow 328 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 256 

Say, Sages, what’s the charm on earth 224 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled. 299 

Searching auld wives’ barrels. 238 

Sensibility, how charming. 313 

She is a winsome wee thing. 248 

She’s fair and fause that causes my 
smart. ... 275 


PAGE 


Should auld acquaintance be forgot.. 299 
Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan 

came. 181 

Sic a reptile was Wat. 243 

Simmer’s a pleasant time. 337 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leaf¬ 
less bough. 184 

Sir, as your mandate did request. 167 

Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card. 198 

Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest 

creature ?. 257 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul de¬ 
sires. 314 

So heavy, passive to the tempests’ 

shocks. 304 

Some books are lies frae end to end.. 73 

Some hae meat, and canna eat. 323 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway... 237 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 265 
Still anxious to secure your partial 

favor. 177 

Strait is the spot and green the sod.. 354 
Streams that glide in orient plains... 287 
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie- 

burnwood. 326 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee... 317 
Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigie-burn... 259 
Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love. 165 
Sweet naivet6 of feature. 223 

Talk not to me of savages. 223 

That there is falsehood in his looks... 238 
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout 323 

The black-headed eagle. 2.33 

The blude red rose at Y ule may blaw 337 

The bonniest lad that e’er I saw.. 338 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 270 

The cats like kitchen. 231 

The cooper o’ Cuddie cam here awa.. 3.38 
The day returns, my bosom burns.... 270 
The De’il cam fiddling thro’ the town 287 
The Devil got notice that Grose was 

a-dying. 240 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths 

among. 189 

The dower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s... 322 
The friend whom wild from wisdom’s 

way. 185 

The gloomy night is gath’ring fast... 297 
The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may 

boast of his treasures. 239 

The heather was blooming, the mead¬ 
ows were mawn .349 

Their groves o’ sweet myrtles let 

foreign lands reckon. 260 

The King’s most humble servant I.... 234 

The laddies by the banks o’ Nith. 351 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging 

glare.204 

The last braw bridal that 1 was at... 233 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of 

the hill. 267 

The lovely lass o’ Inverness. 278 

The man, in life wherever plac’d. ... 126 
The night was still, and o’er the hill.. 220 
The noble Maxwells, and their powers 337 

The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad.342 

The poor man weeps—here Gavin 

sleeps.241 

There came a piper out o’ Fife.233 












































































INDEX TO FIRST LINES 


713 


PAGE 


There liv’d a lass in yonder dale. 848 

There lived carle on Kellyburn braes 340 
There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in 

yon glen . 247 

There’s a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity. 283 

There’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow- 

braes. 249 

There’s death in the cup—sae beware! 224 
There’s naethin like the honest 

nappy!. 229 

There’s news, lasses, news. 351 

There’s naught but care on ev’ry han’ 294 
There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, 
bonnie lass. 325 


There was a lad was born in Kyle.... 310 
There was a lass, and she was fair.... 252 
There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg.. 341 
There was a wife woun’d in Cockpen 351 
There was once a day, but old Time 


then was young. 302 

There were five Carlins in the south.. 822 
There were three Kings into the east 291 
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic 

plough. 78 

The small birds rejoice in the green 
leaves returning. 317 


The smiling spring comes in rejoicing 278 
The solemn League and Covenant.... 223 
The sun had clos’d the winter day.... 93 
The Tailor fell thro’ the bed, thimbles 


an’ a’. 339 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea 272 

The tither morn.339 

The weary pund, the weax’y pund-268 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills.. 150 
The winter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last. 317 

The wintry west extends his blast... 118 
They snool me sair, and haud me down 272 
Thickest night, o’erhang my dwell¬ 
ing. 266 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 255 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 183 

This Day Time winds th’ exhausted 

chain—. 181 

This wot ye all whom it concerns.... 175 
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part.... 281 
Thou flattering mark of friendship 

kind. 224 

Though fickle fortune has deceiv’d 

me. 228 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie. 290 

Thou lingering star, with less’ning 

ray. 315 

Thou of an independent mind. 182 

Thou’s welcome, wean! mishanterfa’ 

me.206 

Thou whom chance may hither lead.. 142 
Thou, who thy honor as thy God 

rever’st. 150 

Tho’ women’s minds like winter winds 315 
Through and through the inspired 

leaves. 225 

’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, 

fair friend. 179 

To Riddel, much-lamented man. 225 

To thee, lov’d Nith, thy gladsome 

plains. 2.55 

To you. Sir, this summons I’ve sent.. 355 


PAGE 


True hearted was he, the sad swain o’ 

the Yarrow. 251 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza—.274 

’Twas even—the dewy fields were 

green. 246 

’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle 55 
’Twas in the seventeen hundred year 346 
’Twas na her bonnie blue ee was my 

ruin.261 

’Twas where the birch and sounding 
thong are ply’d. 200 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn. 68 

Upon that night, when Fairies light.. 99 
Up wi’ the carles of Dysart.342 

W&e is my heart, and the tear’s in 

my ee. 349 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed 

leaf!. 226 

Weary fa’ you, Duncan Gray.343 


We came na here to view your warks 236 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r.. 127 
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie 111 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather 


wallet. 326 

Wha is that at my bower door ?.284 

Whan I sleep I dream. 347 

Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad ?... 343 
What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch.... 233 
What can a j’-oung lassie, what shall 

a young lassie. 272 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? 237 
What needs this din about the town 

o’ Lon’on. 201 

What of earls with whom you have 

supt.227 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die ?... 343 

Wha will buy my troggin.345 

When biting Box’eas, fell and doure.. Ill 
When by a generous public’s kind ac¬ 
claim.229 

When chapman billies leave the street 152 
When chill November’s surly blast... 123 
When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er 1^ 

When-, deceased, to the devil 

went down. 244 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle... 313 
When first I saw fair Jeanie’s face... 352 

When first my brave Johnnie lad. 343 

When Guilford good our pilot stood.. 293 

When I think on the happy days.M9 

When Januar’ wind was blawing 

cauld. 324 

When lyart leaves besti'ew the yird.. 104 
When Nature her great masterpiece 

design’d. 146 

When o’er the hill the eastern star... 247 

When the drums do beat. 333 

When wild-war’s deadly blast was 

blawn. 311 

Where are the joys I have met in the 

morning. 289 

Where, braving angry winter’s storms 267 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. 300 

While at the stook the shearers cowr 193 
While briers an woodbines budding 

green. 135 

While Europe’s eye is fixed on mighty 
things. 177 
































































714 


INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 


PAGE ) 


While larks with little wing. 252 

While new-ca’d kye rowte at the 

stake. 136 

While virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood. 159 
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond 
blaw. 114 


Whoe’er he be that sojourns here.... 236 
Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know... 241 
Whom will you send to London town! 343 
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 199 
Why am I loth to leave this earthly 


scene?. 125 

Why, why tell thy lover. 302 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 197 

Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride 225 

W^il lie Wastledwalt on Tweed.277 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary.... 310 

Wilt thou be my dearie ?. 255 

With Pegasus upon a day. 226 

Wow, but your letter made me 
vauntie!. 172 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams 

around. 298 

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon.. 276 

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon.276 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right... 281 
Ye hae lien a’ wrang, lassie.282 


PAGE 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an’ Squires 63 


Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, 

give an ear.. 347 

Ye maggots feast on Nichol’s brain.. 233 
Ye men of wit and wealth, why all 

this sneering. 239 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by 

Willie. 347 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my 

song. 226 

Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine.286 

Yestreen I met you on the moor.268 

Ye true “ Loyal Natives,” attend to 

my song. 226 

Yon wand’ring rill, that marks the 

hill. 320 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty 

and wide.r..284 

Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain... 349 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad... 306 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest 

lass.309 

Your billet, sir, I grant receipt.242 

Your News and Review, Sir, I’ve read 

through and through. Sir. 199 

Your welcome to Despots, Dumourier 316 

You’re welcome, Willie Stewart.245 

Yours this moment I unseal.227 


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